Sasuke: Ninja Assassin
by Phate Caedus
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple hit: take out Gaara. But after an unfortunate change in plans, Sasuke finds himself trapped in a cat-and-mouse game with a mysterious girl whose skill, knowledge, and abilities may lead to Sasuke's own untimely death.
1. Chapter 1

"_**Rome had Caesar, a man of remarkable governing talents, although it must be said that a ruler who arouses opponents to resort to **__**assassination**__** is probably not as smart as he ought to be."**_** Barbara W. Tuchman****.**

He arrived early that evening. I was enjoying a quiet dinner in the lobby restaurant, where I had a view of the registration desk, and made him in an instant. He was small in stature for being part American, probably even in height with myself. Taunt, muscular build. In his left hand he held what looked like a computer briefcase, something in black leather, and I caught a flash of an expensive watch encircling his wrist. But despite the accessories and the jewelry, there was no element of fusiness about him. On the contrary, his presence was relaxed, and powerful, and maybe even a little bored.

He looked like the kind of guy who wouldn't have to raise his voice when speaking to subordinates. Someone who could command the attention of strangers with only a look or a gesture. Someone who wouldn't need to threaten violence to get what he wanted, if only because the hint of it would be enough.

Even if I hadn't had access to his CIA file, my instincts would have told me plenty. This guy was dangerous. It wouldn't be enough just to complete the mission, like my instructors had indoctrinated into my head; this time, I couldn't make _any_ mistakes. The file had shown me that he wasn't just smart, he was capable.

Gaara had been born of an American Army officer on leave and an Irish woman (neither of whom, probably, saw each other again after leave time). Lacking a father figure hadn't seemed to slow the boy down, though, and he had excelled in school, both academically and athletically. His fluent language skills, particularly Arabic, had made him a natural for overseas assignments when he joined the Irish Special Forces. Eventually he wound up stationed in Iran and immediately deserted, no pun intended. Playing among his contacts on both sides of the never-ending wars there, Gaara became a conduit for small arms deals to various Middle Eastern hot spots. His latest efforts were concentrated in Southeast Asia, where various emerging militant groups had formed a sizeable, and growing, consumer base.

He was also known to have a taste for the finer things, as well as a nasty gambling habit.

When he walked in to the lobby and made his way for the front check-in desk, I was glad I was privy to such information. A "Ninja Assassin," as me and my kind are nicknamed, doesn't take chances. Especially when you operate alone like me.

Two bodyguards followed him in, wearing suits and large in frame. Great, hired guns. One of them started a visual security sweep of the vicinity, checking for anything that triggered his radar, but Gaara didn't rely solely on him. Instead, he did his own sweep of the room and its occupants. I watched with my peripheral vision and, when I sensed that he was finished, looked back over just in time to see Gaara's date arrive through the front doors.

She was a pretty girl. She was wearing a dark red dress and pumps that shared a message of practical, yet very classy. What you'd expect on a traveler with a first-class ticket. She was shorter than Gaara, with long legs and a trim body that spoke of serious gym time. Something that surprised me, though, was that she started her _own_ visual inspection of the room. I hadn't expected that, and looked down at my menu while her gaze passed over. When I glanced back, she was standing beside Gaara, her arm linked through his.

Something about her presence was as comfortable as his. Everything about her seemed natural: her hair, her clothes, her face. Very odd when it came to modern girls. The guy must've had a taste for rare finds.

_The gang's all here,_ I thought to myself. _The villain, the hired muscle, and the eye candy._

A few minutes passed while their rooms were secured. Then all four finished and made their way to the elevators. I gave them four minutes, then paid my check and left, digging out my cell phone and dialing the number for the hotel.

The answer was quick and in Chinese. I asked, in English, to be connected to the presidential suite.

"One moment please."

There was a silence, then two rings before the phone was picked up. "Hello,"a man's voice stated.

"Hello, this is the front desk," I said, doing a fairly decent Chinese accent. Languages were just as effective a disguise as any mask or prosthetic. "Is there anything we can be doing to make Mr. Gaara's stay with us more comfortable?"

"No, we're fine," the voice said.

"Very good. Please enjoy your stay."

I hung up the cell, turned it off, pocketed it, and made my way to my room. _Presidential suite. Gotcha._

* * *

The next day, I decided to enjoy a little gambling at the Lisboa Casino. I couldn't continually set up for Gaara in the hotel lobby without drawing attention to myself. So I decided that the best way to get to him was not to follow him around, but to anticipate where he would wind up.

This is actually easier than it sounds. All you have to do is put yourself in the other guy's shoes: If I were him, what would I do? How would I view the world, where would I go, how would I behave? Performing this kind of exercise with someone like Gaara was tougher than usual, because someone as security-cautious as he would probably tend to favor randomness. Random times, random routes, random destinations. They deliberately avoid getting into routines or developing behavioral patterns, because that can be deadly in this game.

But his security wasn't perfect. Everyone has a security flaw; in this case it would definitely be a compulsion to gamble. And the city had some of the best casinos in the world. If you're addicted to high-stakes poker and the finer things in life, there really wasn't any better place than the Lisboa Casino. He would gamble, all right, and rationalize by telling himself that there was nothing to worry about, that no one knew where he was, and besides, he always traveled with his bodyguards, just in case.

Personally, I don't like casinos. The entrances and exits tend to be too tightly controlled, for one thing. The cameras and surveillance there are the best in the world, for another. Every move you make is recorded by a hundred unblinking eyes and stored on tape for a minimum of two weeks. And I don't even like having my picture taken for fake ID.

I bought chips worth four hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars (about sixty thousand US) and then wandered the high rollers level, room to room, never actually entering a game until I found what I was looking for.

Outside the Lisboa's most exclusive VIP room were the two bodyguards, flanking the entrance. Gaara must've felt pretty safe inside not to bother with having them right next to his arm at every moment. And sure, the guards could effectively monitor whoever decided to watch or play in the room, and deal appropriately with anyone they deem suspicious.

Too bad for them. I'm not a suspicious-looking guy.

I walked past both of them and into the room, and there they were. Gaara and the girl, both dressed tastefully, and a bit more stylishly than the other players at the table. There were other players at the table, but Gaara and his date had empty seats to either side of them. I walked over and took the seat to his right, so that he would naturally have to look away from me to talk to the girl. The black computer briefcase was nestled against his leg.

He turned to me. "I've seen you, haven't I?" he said. It was an interesting accent, one that didn't really reveal a nationality, more like a hybrid mix. He sounded like he was both recollecting a memory, or accusing me. And saying something like that as a greeting was a breach of high roller etiquette; you were supposed to respect the other players' anonymity.

"Maybe at the tables downstairs," I answered. "I have to build up my bankroll before a trip to the VIP rooms."

He nodded and placed his bet, returning to the game and whispering something in the ear of the girl. I saw from his movement that he wasn't really concerned about me; if he had been, then his back wouldn't be turned.

The dealer dealt out cards to each of us. As he did so, I leaned forward and crossed my hands, my right finders settling across the watch I was wearing on my left wrist. On the underside of the watch was a thumbnail-sized squib containing a little cocktail. The concoction in question was made up primarily of staphylococcus aureus--food poison--and chloral hydrate, which causes nausea, disorientation, and unconsciousness within one to four hours. The first would get Gaara back to his hotel room in a hurry. The second would ensure that he slept soundly when he got there.

The symptoms of staph infection set in so quickly that there was a good chance Gaara would return to the hotel room without, or at least ahead of, the girl. He might not even allow her to spend the night with him--a rebellious stomach was nothing you wanted a beautiful woman privy to witness.

I won the first round. So far so good; my budget for this particular job wasn't inexhaustible, and there was no telling how long it would take to find the right opportunity to strike. I eased the squib free and held it at the junction of my right middle and forefinger. I'd wait for the right moment--one of his head-turns, a big win or loss from one of the other players, or some such distraction--and then make my move.

She leaned toward Gaara. "I'm going to try the blackjack tables. I'll be back in a little while." She got up and left.

I stole a glance, just a quick one, the kind that no one would find surprising or disrespectful. Her legs were definitely stunning, and she walked with the confidence of someone who long ago came to terms with the fact that she is beautiful, and today finds the fact neither remarkable nor worthy of flaunting.

A pretty attendant came by with drinks, carrying them on a silver tray. She placed one of them, a simple glass of tonic water, on the table next to Gaara, then leaned forward to do the same with mine. He was watching the dealer, who was shuffling and getting ready to deal.

_Now._

I half rose from my seat, reaching for the drink with both hands as though I were concerned that no spillage should occur during transfer. As my right hand passed over Gaara's glass, I paused for an instant and squeezed the squib. Using my torso as a shield from the overhead cameras, who were always watching but unfortunately not all-seeing, I eased back in the seat, my own glass in hand.

_Hard part's over._

He ignored the drink for the next round, and the round after. At the end of the fifth round, he picked it up and drank. One sip. A pause, then another sip. He put the glass down.

Time to go.

I played one more hand, and then picked up my chips. "Good luck," I said to everyone, and moved to stand.

"So soon?" he asked. God, that voice of his was unnerving.

I'd been there for less than an hour--no time at all, by the standards of regular poker diehards. He was probing, I could see. The guy had a cop's eye for irregularities.

"The bad part about gambling is, eventually you lose," I told him, holding up my chips. "I've learned to quit while I'm ahead."

His gaze was ice cool. "Yes, that's usually wise. Good luck."

There was no smile in my voice when I said, "Same to you."

* * *

**Hello again, and welcome to the re-posting of Ninja Assassin.**

**A few months back this fic was deleted entirely, under circumstances that I'd rather not reveal at this point. Plenty of people were disappointed, but that's all done and over with now, thanks to a friend of mine. Note to all writers on this site: if you want to keep your work safe, keep copies of it hidden.**

**So if you are a first-time reader of this fic, welcome and enjoy. You'll find that this is a story that goes pretty in-depth when it comes to techniques used by spies and assassins—but I'm warning you all right now that you should be wary before attempting to use ANY of what you might learn from here. This fic is meant for pure entertainment purposes.**

**So, without further ado, let's continue on with the story.**


	2. Chapter 2

"**Why do we kill people who are killing people to show that killing people is wrong?****" **

**Holly Near**

I'll be honest with you. Killing isn't the hard part.

People do it every day, don't they? Anger pumps you up, panic takes away your ability to consider alternatives, you grab the gun, close your eyes, pull the trigger. Christ, children have done it every day since the dawn of man.

No, the truth of the matter is, killing is the easiest part of the job. Getting close to a target, though? That's a bit tricky. And when he's well protected and smart, that takes some talent. Making it look "natural," which just so happens to be my area of expertise, well...I've only ever known of two other guys who could do that right time after time, and I'm not so sure that they count: one of them is retired, and I killed the other one. And leaving no trail behind you once the job is done? That's not exactly easy, either.

I took a cab to the Oriental hotel and went straight to my room, shedding off my civilian garb and grabbing what tools I would need from a small travel safe that I carry whenever I need to use hotels (no sense in leaving a syringe and Glock nine on the dresser for the maid to find). Gaara would start feeling sick soon and could be expected to return a few minutes behind me, so I would need to be quick. Luckily I had kept all the stuff I needed in a small black backpack for just this occasion. Speed is a weapon.

Strapped to my wrist was one of the more high-tech toys that the Agency had let me borrow, a nifty device called SoldierVision. It takes a radar "picture" of a room through walls and feeds the resulting image back into the wrist unit. It was as close as you could get to seeing through walls.

His room would be locked, and the only keys used in the Oriental were punched-hole mechanical keycards, the kind that look like plastic credit cards with patterns of two-millimeter holes cut into them. The maids carried master keys, of course, and it had been easy enough to walk past a room that was being cleaned, pull the maid's master key from the cart, make an impression in a chunck of model clay I'd picked up in a local toy store, and put the key back, all in about six seconds. Using the impression, all I had to do was punch the appropriate additional holes in my spare room keycard, fill the inappropriate ones with fast setting epoxy clay, and presto. I had the same access as the hotel staff.

At room 818, I used the SoldierVision before letting myself in with my homemade masterkey. I moved quickly to the suite's enormous walk-in closet and did some quick inspecting: just a pull handle, no actual knob on the door. A few suits hanging on the hangar bar, clothing bags on the floor. And, best of all, the hinges were whisper-quiet. I knew that the bodyguards were likely to inspect the room before Gaara entered, but I also knew that, given his current condition, the guy would definitely want to be alone and would therefore probably order them out--if he allowed them in at all--before they could perform a professional sweep.

Still, though, Kakashi trained me to be prepared, and that was why I was carrying a CIA-designed .22 caliber single-shot pistol, artfully concealed in the handle of a Montblanc fountain pen. If pressed, I could use the disposable pen to drop whoever discovered me and, in the surprise that was a ninja's best friend, improvise with whoever might be left. Of course, if it came to this, I wouldn't get paid, so the gun was a last resort.

I didn't have long to wait. Twenty minutes go by fast, and that was how long it took before I heard to door to the suit burst open. A light came on from the outer room. Then the sound of feet, rapidly heading for the bathroom. The door to the toilet stall slammed against the wall, followed immediately by the sounds of violent retching.

Another set of footsteps. A male voice: "Mister Gaara..."

A bodyguard, I assumed. There was more retching, then the low and ragged voice of someone having a _very_ rough night: _"Get out!"_

I heard the bodyguard walk off, then the sound of the door opening and closing. Gaara continued to groan and retch. After about ten minutes I heard him stumble out of the bathroom. The bedroom light went off, filling the room with darkness, and there was the sounds of an exhausted body collapsing into bed. I raised my left hand and looked at the glowing dials on my watch; another half-hour--long enough for the chloral hydrate to be largely processed through his system (and therefore extremely hard to trace) but not so long that he would start to wake up-- and then I would finish the job.

With luck, the staph infection would be blamed on the heart attack that Gaara was about to suffer.

In fact, the heart trouble would be caused by an injection of potassium chloride. I would try for the axilary vein under the armpit, or perhaps the ophthalmic vein in his eye. Both were extremely hard to detect entry points, especially with the tiny 25-gauge needle I would be using.

No worries about it being traced: even with modern forensic investigation equipment, it would be useless. After death, other cells in the body begin to naturally break down, releasing potassium into the bloodstream, and thereby rendering undetectable the presence of the very agent that got the ball rolling to begin with.

Twenty minutes passed, with no sound other than Gaara's occasional groans. I eased open the door to the closet. Just a few more minutes and I would begin preparing the injection. I had a small bottle of chloroform that I would use if he started to stir during the procedure.

There was the sound of a card key sliding into the door's lock. I froze and listened.

A moment passed, and I shut the closet door swiftly, but left it open just a crack for visibility. The front door opened, then clicked closed. The light went on in the bedroom, filling it with the soft light of an adjusted dial. I reached into a pocket and pulled out the .22 pen. I heard the sound of footsteps and Gaara's occasional groan.

A voice: "How are you feeling?"

_The girl_, I thought. It was her, and she must've had her own key. I gritted my teeth with the overall bad timing. Another five minutes and this would've all been over.

I watched her enter my field of vision by the bed and saw her shake Gaara's shoulder once, then harder. "Lover?" she asked. This time there wasn't even a groan.

I saw her take a deep breath, hold it, then let it out in a slow hiss. Then she strode quickly and quietly over to a wall switch and cut the lights. She moved to a desk across from the bed, and I saw Gaara's computer case, the one I had seen him with in the lobby and then again in the casino. Interesting. She unzipped the case and took out a thin laptop, which she opened.

Then she walked over to the bed, gently took one of the pillows from beside his head, came back to the desk, and held the pillow over the laptop's keyboard. It took me a second to figure out what she was doing: muffling the chimes or other music announcing that the operating system was booting to life. A nice move, which showed some forethought on her part. Maybe some practice. She wouldn't have know where Gaara had left the volume of the machine when he had last used it; if it had been left up, the loud tones would've most likely stirred his slumber.

After a few minutes, the trademark Windows logo appeared on the screen, the accompanying notes barely audible under the fluffy cushion. She paused for a moment, then removed the pillow and returned it to its original place on the bed. I noted that she hadn't tossed it on the floor, or otherwise thrown it randomly aside. She was keeping the room exactly how she found it, down to the details. Another sign that she had good instincts or was otherwise trained. Or both.

The girl walked back to the desk and pulled a cell phone from her purse. She spent a moment configuring it in some way, then pointed it at the laptop. She started working the phone's keypad.

Several minutes went by. She would input some sequence on the phone's keypad, look at the laptop for a few seconds, then repeat. Occasionally she would glance at Gaara. I could see that the laptop screen hadn't changed while she was doing all this, and contemplated what she was up to. My guess was that the laptop had a high security password protection system, and her "cell phone" was more than it seemed. She was probably using the device to interrogate the laptop by infrared, most likely trying to generate a password or otherwise get inside.

Ten minutes went by. We were getting to the point where Gaara's metabolism might have dissolved enough of the drug for him to regain consciousness. Another five minutes, ten at the most, and I would have no choice but to abort.

But how? If Gaara saw me, especially after meeting me at the poker tables not two hours ago, or if the girl reported that there had been an intruder that swiftly ran past her and escaped out the front door, I would be facing even tougher security next time. It would be a hell of a time to get a second chance.

I heard Gaara take in a sharp breath, stirring. The girl froze, glanced at him, and must have decided that he might be waking up, because a second later the cell phone was back in her purse and she was logging off, using the pillow again to muffle the departure chimes. When the screen had gone dark, she closed the lid and placed it back in the case, returned the pillow, and began to undress.

_Shit._

The situation was deteriorating. I couldn't count on her to sleep deeply enough for me to slip out unnoticed. Hell, from what I'd seen so far, she looked like she might sleep as lightly as I do. Kill them both? Impossible to do "naturally." Shikamaru had stressed that payment was only available on condition of no evidence of foul play. Besides, what I do, I don't do to women or children. On the contrary, I found myself liking this woman, and it wasn't just her looks. It was her moves, her self-possession, her sharp strategic eye.

There was really only one possibility of me getting out of there. It was risky, but certainly better than any alternatives.

I waited until the girl had completely undressed, the moment where she would feel most exposed, most helpless. She was just moving toward the bed, presumably to join Gaara's side, when I opened the closet door fully and strode into the bedroom.

She startled when she saw me, but overall kept her composure. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?" she asked in a low voice, more accusatory than afraid.

"You know me?" I whispered back, thinking, _What the hell?_

"From the casino. And I've seen you around the hotel. Now why are you here?"

Christ, she was as observant as he was. "Any luck with his computer?" I asked, trying to regain the initiative. My gaze was locked onto her torso, but for strategic reasons: after confirming the hands are empty, always watch the midsection, because that's where aggressive movement tends to originate. In this instance, though, the view was a little distracting. She looked even better naked than she did dressed, which wasn't common with most natural girls.

And she knew how to keep cool, too. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? I've got it all here on low-light video." I flashed up the SoldierVision, still strapped to my wrist. It was a bluff, but any ninja knows that any tool can have multiple uses.

She glanced at the device, then back at me. "On a SoldierVision? They don't record video."

Damn, she knew her hardware. Whoever she was, she was good, and I needed to stop underestimating her. "This one does," I said, improvising. "Prototype, fresh from the lab. So why don't we make a deal? I don't know who you're working for, and really I don't care. As far as I'm concerned this never happened. You didn't see me, and I didn't see you. How does that sound?"

She was silent for a long moment, seemingly oblivious to her nakedness. Then she asked, "Who are you with?"

"Don't ask, don't tell."

She was silent again, and my gaze dropped an inch. Her body was beautiful: simultaneously muscular and curvaceous, like a figure skater or gymnast, with delicate, pale skin that seemed to glow faintly in the light diffused through the curtains. I looked up again, and saw that she was watching my eyes. "You're probably bluffing about the video," she said, her voice steady and smooth. "But I can't take that chance. You're not leaving with it."

I nodded my head at Gaara. "He's going to come to any minute now. If he wakes up and I'm here, it'll be bad for both of us."

She rolled her eyes as if bored by the threat. "I'm going to get dressed."

I almost bought it. Natural enough--she was naked in front of a stranger, she wanted to put clothes on. But then I saw her reach for her purse instead of going for her clothes.

"Don't."

She must have had a weapon in there. I closed the distance and kicked the purse aside. As I did so, I saw her straighten up and her left elbow was suddenly whipping at my right temple. I instinctively moved in closer to get inside the blow, and her elbow missed the mark. But she instinctively snapped her hips the other way and caught me with the other elbow, on the other side of my head. _Boom_.

I saw stars.

Before she could whip together a combination, I dropped down, wrapped my left arm around her closest ankle, and drove my shoulder into her shin. She went down hard on her back.

"_Are you crazy?_" I hissed, voice still low on volume. "What are you going to do when you wake him up?" There was a dull throbbing in my head where the elbow had connected. I moved over to the purse and picked it up to make sure she couldn't get to it again. There was no telling what she had in there; lipstick Mace, razor-edged credit cards, a .22 pen like mine, maybe.

Gaara groaned again, and twitched. I was officially out of time.

"How are you going to get past the bodyguards?" she whispered.

That stumped me. I had expected them to depart after Gaara was safely in the room, not stand by the door all night like guards for a British Queen. I aimed the SoldierVision at the wall and checked; sure enough, there were two human images just on the other side of the door. _Oh, just great._

"Give me the video," she said, "and I'll send the guards away. You can go."

I shook my head slowly, trying to find a way to improvise out of this.

"Look," she whispered sharply, "I don't know who you are, but you're obviously no friend of his. You've probably figured out that I'm not his friend, either. Maybe we can help each other. But show me some good faith."

"I'm not giving you the video."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "To tell you the truth, I don't really believe that there is a video. And when he wakes up, it's going to be your word against mine, and we both know who he's more inclined to trust."

I shrugged. "And if I told him to check his boot log on the laptop? Or tell him to take a good look at you cell?"

She didn't have an answer for those.

"But I agree, we can help each other, and here's how we're going to do it. I'm going to hide again. You get the guards in here, tell them Gaara seems really sick, he's been throwing up and is barely conscious and you need to get him into a hospital. You all walk him out of here. As soon as you're gone, I'll be gone too. You can have the video after that."

She was silent for a long moment.

"How do I contact you?" I asked, closing the deal.

She pressed her lips together tightly and rubbed her head in aggravation. "Look for me in the casino at eight tomorrow night."

"What do I call you?"

She looked at me, her eyes angry. "Sakura."


	3. Chapter 3

**"No nation hiding behind closed doors is free, for it is imprisoned by its own fear." **

**Bill Clinton.**

I had been living in Brazil for almost a year when they finally found me.

After leaving Japan, I had taken on the identity of Toshiro Keitaro, an alter-ego for myself that I had created just in case my enemies from the past should ever track me back to Tokyo (which, of course, they had). I decided that the place for me would be Barra da Tijuca, Brazil, home to some six hundred thousand of Brazil's approximately one million ethnic Japanese. It was the largest such community outside of Japan, and as such was the perfect place for a recent arrival like "Keitaro-san" to easily lose himself.

I obsessed over the study of the Portugese language for the first month. Tapes, teachers, television, music, movies, even a series of professional women, because, as most men know, there is no more natural or productive route to the learning of a language than through the sharing of a pillow. My linguistic progress was excellent, as one might expect of a person who already speaks Japanese and English like a native.

My new home was a sports/fitness-obsessed population, with numerous health food outlets, and it was easy for me to indulge my taste for protein shakes and _acai_ fruit smoothies. These, along with antioxidants, fish oil, and other dietary supplements, enhanced my recovery times and enabled me to adhere to a wonderful workout every day (five hundred daily Hindu squats, three hundred inclined sit-ups, three hundred Hindu pushups, and various other bodyweight calisthenics that maintain strength and flexibility).

I varied my mornings and evenings training at Gracie Barra, where the now-famous Gracie family had taken the teachings of a visiting Japanese diplomat and adapted them into a system of grappling and ground fighting so sophisticated that the art is now more firmly established in Brazil than it ever was in Japan. With no real job to do during the day, I trained frequently and hard. The academy's younger black belts were impressed with my skills, but in truth their ground fighting game was stronger than mine (although certainly less effective, if applied to the real world). But I harbored no egotistic grudge toward them, and in fact relished the opportunity to expand my personal arsenal.

In the afternoons I would run my own personal _parkour _course out to one of the more isolated beaches; they were always slivers of sand, hard to access on foot, where only the most determined surfers and a nude sunbather or two would dare venture. After a month my skin had become darker, like that of a true _carioca_, and my hair grew streaked like a surfer's.

One rainy morning, about a month after truly feeling at ease with my new home, I left my apartment for a workout at Gracie Barra. It was one of those mornings where I decided training would be in shorts and tee-shirt, instead of the heavy cotton _judogi _that martial artists are known to wear_._ I took the stairs to the third floor, kicked off my shoes, and stepped onto the mat.

Almost instantly, I regretted even coming.

On the far side of the room a blonde caucasian was doing a series of handstand pushups against the wall. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of orange shorts that seemed completely out of place with the rest of the environment, just like his nationality. He saw me come in and dropped down to a regular stance, the move smooth and silent despite the personality I knew him to possess. The hair was a bit shaggier than I remembered from a few years ago, but there was no way that I couldn't recognize him.

Uzumaki Naruto.

He was a loudmouthed troublemaker.

He was also one of the best snipers I had ever seen.

Naruto was one of the elite that the Fates seemed to enjoy turning out now and then, and, like me, he'd been recruited by the CIA on occasion for jobs here and there. We had each spent some time training together as students in Konoha a while back, before I had gotten enough and decided to go into my own private business. I left him and Konoha, and I hadn't seen either, or missed either, since then.

He walked over, a grin spreading as he approached. "Hey. Wanna roll around a little?"

A greeting like that was usual for him. American. I noted that he had no place to conceal a weapon or a transmitter. I wondered whether the choice of just shorts had been made deliberately, to reassure me. Naruto liked to play the roll of an impulsive idiot sometimes, and a lot of people bought the act. But I knew he could be crafty when he wanted to be.

"Let me warm up a bit," I replied, not returning the smile. "I'll let you know when I'm ready." Without waiting, I began rotating my head, loosening my neck.

He gave me the grin again. "I'll be right here waiting."

I stretched and worked through a series of Hindu squats, neck bridges, and other calisthenics until I felt pretty limber. Then I stood and signaled to Naruto, who had been watching from the side. "You're still good," he said. "Easy to see. Rolling through on those neck bridges smooth. You're staying in shape, huh?"

Although he'd been pretty effective in the field, Naruto had always talked a little too much in my opinion. He still had the habit, it seemed.

"You want to start standing," I asked, "or on the ground?"

"Whatever you want, Sasuke" he said. "It's your place."

If he'd intended the comment to rattle me, he'd failed. But I did feel some irritation, for a moment, that he had said my real name. I had a feeling I might not be able to respond as quickly as decorum ordinarily demanded when he tapped out of a submission hold. I nodded and started circling. He got the idea and followed suit.

I had been training at the best Brazilian Juijutsu school for months by now. The martial art was mostly groundfighting: first you achieve a dominant position ("establishing your base," as Rorion Gracie puts it) and then use joint locks and strangles to finish off your opponent. Naruto would obviously be thinking that I'd put those lessons to use. Which meant he probably knew how to counter them. So I decided to do a little deception. Instead of using BJJ, I'd delve more into my arsenal and use a little sambo.

Sambo is Russian wrestling that, like juijutsu, is characterized by joint lock submissions, particularly to the legs and ankles. Some of these locks can be applied so swiftly and can cause such extensive damage that they've been outlawed from grappling tournaments. I had Naruto defeated in twenty seconds with a little demonstration of classic sambo prowess, a heel hook.

Despite the technique's name, the attack is to the knee joint, not the heel. The heel only serves as a lever, and I had a nice grip on Naruto's. He tried to kick with his right leg, but the kicks were feeble from his position. I twisted a fraction more and he gave up that strategy.

"Tap tap," he said. "You got me."

"Who sent you here?"

"Hey, come on Sasuke! I said tap!"

I twisted a fraction and he grimaced loudly. "Who sent you?" I asked once again.

"Oh, come on, you know who sent me. Same guys as last time."

"Yeah? There were plenty of 'last times'. Who sent you?"

He tried to push my leg off. I squeezed my knees tighter and twisted his heel another milimeter. "Fuck!" he yelled, loud enough for a few people to notice. "Come on already, let me go!" His breathing was getting more labored, as much from pain as from exertion. I looked in his eyes.

"Hey, Naruto," I said, my voice calm, almost a whisper. "I'm going to count to three. If you haven't told me what I want to know by then, I'm going to twist as hard as I can. Ready? One. Two. Th--"

"The Company! Cubans In America! The fucking Culinary Institute Art school for fuck's sake!"

I almost twisted anyway.

"Who's your handler?"

"For the luvva Jesus, man, you don't have to...fuck! Shikamaru! Japanese guy around our age, tied-back hair, lazy attitude, says he knows you."

Shikamaru. The only guy from my past who was a little too smart for his own good. I should've known. I released Naruto's leg and disengaged.

The tension ran out of his body and he slumped onto his back, cradling his injured knee. "Oh, man, I can't believe you just did that," he muttered. "That was totally unnecessary. What if I hadn't spoken up, huh? What then?"

I shrugged. "Surgery to reconstruct the anterior and posterior cruciate ligaments and menisci, then maybe a six-to twelve-month rehabilitation. Lots of painkillers that wouldn't work nearly as well as you'd want. Now let's go somewhere we can talk."

"Damn," he grunted as he stood up. A second or two passed. Then he flexed his leg, looked at me, and flashed his indefatigable grin. He talked as we both wiped the sweat off and put our clothes back on.

"Nice town you set yourself up in," he said. "Good weather, the surf nearby...and man, the girls! I've been falling in love maybe three times a day down here! First morning, I got to my hotel, the girl at the reception desk, whoo, they practically had to resuscitate me she was so fine."

If there was one word that would describe him, it was definitely 'American'.

"Okay, so here's the score: I've been doing some work for Uncle Sam and Granny Tsunade, deniable stuff, off the books. High-risk, but pretty lucrative."

"Yeah?"

He nodded before putting on his shirt. "Yeah. But there's a lot of work to be done, and they thought you might be interested. Oh, and contacting you wasn't my idea, by the way. I didn't even know you were still around, man. A lot of kids we knew in the Academy, they're not breathing so much these days."

I bent down to tie the laces on my shoes. "Whose idea was it, then?"

"CIA." He shivered in mock excitement. "They've got some sort of new mandate. No more Nine-Elevens. No more sneak bombing attacks. So now we get to do whatever it takes in order to stop _all _the bad guys. You know, the financers, arms brokers, all the go-betweeners and guys with the suitcases handcuffed to their wrists."

"I take it you want to recruit me for the 'whatever it takes' part."

"You got it. But hey, I'm not about to talk about it out here, and I don't know that much anyway. So you're just gonna have to call up old Shika-boom-boom and get the good information from him." He reached into his gym bag and pulled out a cell phone. "His number's the only one in the call log. It's tapped, obviously, so just toss it when you're done." He grinned, waved a hand, and headed down the stairs. "Later."

I was a little surprised by the quick departure. "You got a plane to catch or something?"

"Hell no," he laughed. "Naruto Uzumaki's got a date with the finest hotel receptionist in South America!"

* * *

I sat and thought for a long time after he left, heading for a small stretch of beach that was, for now, unoccupied. A good place for thinking. So I thought. About my life in Rio. About how Naruto had come into it, and how he was suddenly gone. About what I ought to do now.

I supposed I could just leave it all behind me. Bolt for the nearest exit again, go somewhere new, invent another Keitaro.

I shook my head, knowing I wasn't ready for that yet, not so soon. I didn't have enough preparation, not enough money... it was too much of a mess. The thought of doing it all over again wasn't very pleasing.

_It would be better to know what they want, anyway. To take the initiative, rather than passively waiting for whatever they have in mind._

All right then. I left the beach, activated the cell phone, and called Shikamaru. The phone rang twice.

"Yeah," he greeted. He sounded groggy, like he had just woken up. It was early afternoon in Rio, after all, and Tokyo was around twelve hours ahead.

"Hope I didn't interrupt any beauty sleep."

"Don't worry about it," he said, recognizing my voice. "I had to get up to answer the phone, anyways."

I was surprised to feel the smile tug at the corners of my mouth. "Tell me what you want."

"Can we meet?"

"No. And after tomorrow, I won't be reachable because I'm leaving Rio." It was a lie, of course, but now I wasn't sure if he would fall for it. He sounded a little older than when I last saw him. Age brought experience, so he would probably be more seasoned at dealing with my type.

"We want your help again," he told me, straight to the point. "So far you're our best shot at what we need."

"You need to take out a few targets, correct?"

"Yes."

"Get Uzumaki to do it. He'll be glad for the work opportunities."

"Look, some of the individual targets in question aren't that easy to reach. The point is, even in today's current security-minded climate, it won't do to just take them out from five hundred yards with an armor-piercing round. And certainly not with a Hellfire missile. Better if their unfortunate ends were to look...you know, natural."

"Assuming I'm interested--which I'm not--what would be in it for me?"

"The money could set you up well," he said, almost impatiently. You could practically hear him thinking, _Are you always this dense?_

"I'm already set," I lied.

We were both quiet for a few moments. Then he said, "Look, I'm not doing any verbal manipulation here, and I'm definitely not threatening you. I'm just telling you that we could really use your help to accomplish something important, and that you could make a lot of money in the process."

I suppressed the grin again. The pitch was nicely done.

"Tell me who and how much," I relented. "After that we'll see if there's anything else worth discussing."

The target was Gaara, of course. The first of many, Shikamaru told me, if I was interested. One hundred thousand U.S. per head, delivered any way I wanted, fifty thousand upfront and the rest upon successful completion. On expenses I'd be out of pocket, which minimized paperwork--and paper trails leading back to me. The only catch was that it absolutely, without a doubt, had to look natural.

It was about what I would have guessed. Enough money to create the incentive, but not so much that I wouldn't be tempted to do it again later. Not a bad deal for them, either: about half the cost of a Hellfire missile, and a lot less publicity.

"Now tell me about Uzumaki."

"Naruto?" You could practically hear him shrug. "I needed someone who knew you, so you could see that the jobs, and the benefits of the jobs, were real. If it weren't for that, though, you would've never known he was working for us."

"Are there others? People that I know?"

He was silent for a while. When he answered, his voice was distant and full of memories from the past.

"You know better than to ask that, Sasuke."


	4. Chapter 4

**"It is wiser to find out than to suppose."**

**Mark Twain.**

After leaving Gaara's suite, I took a long, solitary walk. I wanted to think about what had just happened and how I was supposed to control what would happen next.

Sakura. Who was she? The name was almost certainly an alias. How would her presence affect my job? Undoubtedly she would be asking the same questions about me. I knew from her recent actions that she was trained, and well trained at that. Therefore she would likely be working for some organization. And she was also, despite public appearances, no friend of Gaara's. She was with him because she wanted something from him. Something he kept on his laptop, but so well protected that she couldn't get to it yet.

By helping me get out of the suite undetected, she had sided with me. We shared a secret. That secret might become the foundation for cooperation, maybe even teamwork, if our jobs were similar enough.

But she also had reason to view me as a threat. There was some damning evidence against her that proved she was in an operation against Gaara, in the form of her cell phone and the boot log on the laptop. Someone could steer Gaara to take a closer look at either of them. Someone like me. The knowledge that I held against her might be enough for Sakura to want me out of the picture. "Out of the picture" could mean a variety of different things, of course, but none of them were particularly attractive to me.

This situation, as Shikamaru would put it, was beginning to get troublesome.

Shikamaru.

I pulled out the cell phone he had given me and called him. It was getting late, but he answered after one ring.

"Is it some sort of coincidence, or do you just enjoy calling me in the middle of the night?"

I grinned. "This time it's a little bit of both."

"What do you want?"

"Information," I said. "Anything you have on a woman I ran into, although I don't have much to go on. Asian, probably Japanese, but I'm not sure. Small, attractive, experienced in training and in the field. Goes by the name Sakura."

"Hm. 'Cherry Blossom,' huh? Sounds like a Japanese stripper."

"Cherry Darling was already taken."

"You need this information for the job, or are you trying to get a date?"

Maybe he thought that busting my chops and teasing me would form a little 'camaraderie'. Or that it would otherwise put us on more equal footing. Either way I didn't care for it. "She's also sleeping with our friend," I said. "That's all for now."

"That's not much to go on."

It seemed Shikamaru had recently learned the value of playing up the difficulty of whatever you wanted him to accomplish. The better to play the hero when he actually came through with results. He was overusing the technique the way a child overuses a cool new phrase. Shikamaru seemed to be getting the idea that I was working for him. Although I supposed that this kind of mind frame was common enough among the world's newly assigned Ninja Assassins, I didn't like being the subject of it. It would be good for him to be reminded on occasion that I didn't work for him, I work for myself. He was a stagehand, not one of the actors.

My voice was an octave lower and I spoke slowly. "I'm not interested in your assessment of how difficult it might be. What I need is information. Can you get it to me or not?"

I heard a voice in the background, muffled but audible. "That's Sasuke, isn't it? Let me talk to him!"

Dammit, I knew that voice. Uzumaki.

There was an exchange that I couldn't quite make out, followed by some static and a clatter. I had a feeling that a wrestling match was underway. Then Naruto was on the phone, his voice loud and obnoxious and full of amusement.

"Hey, buddy, sounds like you're having a good time over there! Are we talking blonde or redhead? Oh, waitaminute, is she Asian? I _love _those Asian girls! They put on that good show of being all proper and polite, but when the floodgates open--"

"Uzumaki--"

"--every hole's a party--!"

"What are you doing there?" I asked, smiling despite myself.

"Oh, you know, just meeting up with my handler, talking about this and that, collecting a paycheck. Granny Tsunade wants to give me another job tomorrow morning, so I'm just gonna blow this one on girlfriends and a full tank of gas. What about you? Guess you decided to take advatange of Uncle Sam's early Christmas gift cards! Good for you, and tough luck for the bad guys."

"You mind putting Shikamaru back on the phone?"

"All right, all right, no need to act short with me. Just wanted to say hello, and welcome to the team." There was a pause, then: "Yo! Shika-boom-boom! Put some ice on the twins and get back here, man, Sasuke wants to talk to you!"

There was another pause, then Shikamaru's voice was back on, sounding incredibly annoyed. "Hey."

"Sound like you got your own hot date of your own out there," I said, unable to resist.

"I wouldn't call it that," he said, sounding glum. "It's like doing hard time with a guy named Bubba."

I chuckled at his joke, which was good. I needed him to understand that I was in charge, but I didn't need to beat him down too hard. "If you find anything on the woman, text me."

"Okay."

* * *

At about six that following evening, I dropped by the casino. Sakura had said eight, but I like to show up for meetings early. It helps prevent surprises.

But this time it didn't do much good.

I noticed Sakura immediately. Dammit, I had a feeling she was crafty enough to predict that I would show up early, but this? More than two hours ahead of schedule? She was one of a handful of people quietly attending the room's lone baccarat table, and the only female. She was dressed plainly, in black pants and a red, shoulderless top. Her hair was pulled back, revealing her neck, and I saw no signs of makeup or jewelry, not even a good luck charm. If she'd been trying to downplay her looks, though, she hadn't been notably successful.

I bought a handful of chips, then took a seat next to her. "Early start for baccarat," I stated obliquely, just in case anyone nearby spoke English.

"For both of us, it seems," she replied, smiling. I got my first real good look at her eyes. They were bright green, almost jade, and they seemed not only to look at things, but somehow to assess and evaluate with intelligence.

We played silently for nearly thirty minutes, until her luck began to turn and she began to lose money. Which was a shame, because I was winning it. I raked in more chips, then turned to her. "I was thinking of going somewhere for a drink," I said casually. "Care to join me? My treat."

She looked at me for a moment, smiled shyly, then quetly said, "Sure."

We left through the street exit. As soon as we were out of earshot of any casino patrons, she whispered direct instructions into my ear. "We'll get a taxi and go somewhere else beside the hotel bar--we're both too well known there. There's not much of a chance that we'll run into any of my acquaintances, but just in case we do: we both ran into each other at the casino. It was dead and boring. I mentioned that I was going to try someplace else. You asked if I wouldn't mind catching a cab with me. Okay?"

I was a bit impressed, although unsurprised. She was thinking operationally, and was as matter-of-fact about it as she was effective.

"Okay."

We stopped at the Oparium Cafe. The ground floor featured an oppressively loud band playing some sort of acid-techno, and a bunch of deafened teenagers gyrating to the beat in a collection of spastic, cardiac-arrest/seizures that can only be described as Badly Dancing. We went upstairs, where it was darker and quieter, and managed to find a table. A pretty Portugese waitress brought us menus written in Chinese and Portugese. Sakura smiled, placed her menu down, and said, "I'll have what you're having."

In the dim light her eyes looked more deep sea green than jade. I liked the way the lighting darkened her features, softened them.

Glancing at the menu, I noticed that they didn't serve any single malts worth drinking. Instead I ordered us a couple of _caipirinhas_, which I knew from recent experience would be delicious in the tropical setting. The waitress departed. We were quiet for a moment. Then Sakura leaned toward me and said, "I have a feeling you want to give me something special."

The fake video. I looked at her. Why was it that her question seemed filled with double meaning? She was attractive, of course, more than attractive, but that wasn't all it. She had a way of looking at me with a sort of confident sexual appreciation, that was it. As though she were seeing me just the way I might hope a sexy girl would see me. And she made it look so natural, so real. I would have to be careful.

"Like what?" I asked, curious to see her reaction.

"Do I need to be more explicit?" she asked, suggestive again.

"Oh, that thing about the video?" I shrugged. "It was a bluff. You knew that. I couldn't take the chance that, without it, you might wake Gaara."

She paused, but I had to admit she recovered quickly. "You aren't concerned that, without your bargaining chip, I might tell him about you anyway?"

"Of course I am."

"Then why are you telling me? I expected you to exploit the video, hang it over my head as a way to protect yourself, whether it was fake or not."

I looked at her, dead on. "I'm not a threat to you."

She raised an eyebrow. "This is like, what, a dog showing its belly?"

"Well, I've already seen yours."

She smiled, but didn't lower her eyes. "Yes. I believe you have."

The smile lingered, along with here eyes, and I felt something stirring down south. It would have been great if I could have just unscrewed the damn thing and left it in a drawer or something back at the hotel. I thought, _Don't be an idiot. This is how she plays it, this is how she gets people to drop her guard. _

"Well, seeing as how you don't have a video for me," she said after a moment, still looking into my eyes, "what should we do next?"

Yes, the detatchment idea was sounding nice. But I had a less extreme means of defending myself. I thought for a moment of all the scores of other men she would have played before me. About how, in her eyes, I was just another new fool, another mark to be led around by his dick. Another easily manipulated man, the same as all the rest. The thought irritated me, which was what I needed. It short-circuited my unavoidable chemical reaction and gave me back some of the air I wanted to project.

"Hey, Sakura," I said softly, in the same tone of voice I had used on Uzumaki when I threatened to cripple him. I let her see the coldness in my eyes. "Let's cut the shit out. I'm not here to flirt. I'm not here to get lucky. We might be able to help each other out, I don't know. But not if you keep trying to play me like I'm some horny kid and you're my date to the prom. Okay?"

She smiled and cocked her head, blinking once. Of course, her poise only added to her appeal. "Why would I be trying to play you?"

"Because you're good at it," I said, still looking at her, my face cold and a little annoyed. "People like to do what they're good at. If they give out awards for what you do, you'd get Best Actress, hands down."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, but other than that she kept her composure.

"It sounds like you have a rather low opinion of yourself," she said.

I understood what she meant. Most guys wouldn't dare do something that could even _lessen_ the chances of getting a hot girl to bed. In nearly every way they are terrified even at the thought of something that could accidentally dim the glow of an attractive woman's sexual attention. Find the toughest, strongest man anywhere, and his greatest weakness would be his ego. However, the ones with the least ego are the ones who don't even try to get the girl in the first place, and there's a fine line between ego and self-esteem.

"Actually, I have a very high opinion of myself," I responded. "But I've seen the way you work Gaara, and he's smarter than most. I know what you can do, I know you're doing it now, and I want you to stop because it's annoying and we've got some things we both need to talk about. Assuming, of course, that you can stop."

For the first time, I saw her lose a little poise. "What do you want, then?" she asked after a few seconds of thought. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were angry, her posture more rigid than it had been a moment earlier. The combination made her look quietly dangerous. I realized that this was my first and probably last chance to see the person behind the mask.

The bad thing was, it made her look even sexier.

It was like seeing a woman's real beauty after she'd removed the makeup that only served to obscure it. A glimpse of a geisha all the more stunning, once the white paint had been washed away.

"I want the same thing you want. To make sure we don't trip all over each other trying to get our jobs done, and getting us both killed in the process."

"And just what is your job, anyway?" she asked.

"Don't ask, don't tell, remember?"

"I've been thinking about it all night," she said, still a little angry. "You seem very interested in Gaara last night. And he was right there in the bed. Helpless. Knocked out. I asked myself, 'If he was an assassin, why didn't he finish the job?' You'd arrived before me, that much is certain. You were able to knock me down, and I obviously didn't have a weapon on me. I couldn't have done anything to stop you. But you didn't follow through."

"You don't know what I came for," I said. "And maybe I didn't want to have to kill you."

She shook her head. "I have worked with some hard guys. Men who could do any job without their personalities getting in the way. Their only objective is to getting the job done." She looked back at me. "I recognize the type."

The waitress brought our _caipirinhas _in frosted glasses, smiled and walked away. Sakura tipped hers back and took a long, slow sip.

"Anyway," she continued, "I have a feeling your business has to be carried out in a... special way. So that no one would know any business has been done. And you couldn't pull it off with someone like me in the room. Killing is easy. Killing and making it look like something else? That would take some...private artistry. My people were thinking the same thing when we discussed the situation after you left." She took another sip and looked at me ominously. "Some of them want to send a team to kill you."

"Did you tell them they'd have to get in line?"

She giggled lightly, covering her mouth in typical Japanese ladylike fashion. "I told them that kind of action would be a mistake. I saw the way you assessed the room when you came into the VIP area. I see the way you subtly check your back all the time. Even this table," she patted the wood, "you chose it because it was in the corner. So you could sit with your back to the wall. You've got that weight about you, the feel of experience, even though I think you're good at hiding it. I told my people that removing you wasn't going to be easy and would probably make a mess. The kind of mess that could alert Gaara that something was wrong. He has very good instincts. I doubt that anyone else could get to him as close as you did."

"Only you."

She smiled, and I saw the bedroom eyes again. "I have resources you don't."

"So we both need to stay out of each others' way," I said. "I take it you already have a few ideas."

She shrugged. "Just one. I told my people that moving against you would be a poor option, although we couldn't rule out that if you insisted on behaving unreasonably. If you gave us no choice."

I looked at her, and let her truly see me. "I doubt that, when you had them research me, they came up with anything. But if they had, they would have told you that I react very poorly to threats. Even irrationally."

She raised both hands. "I'm not threatening you."

"Convince me of that."

"Look, all we need is something from Gaara's computer. Stand down for a few days. Let me get what I need. When I have it, I can get you access to him again."

"I don't need you. I can get to him myself, you know that."

She shook her head. "That last time was one in a million. You or someone else must've poisoned his food or drink at some point. If that happens twice, he's going to know something is wrong. And that means stiffer defenses, moving around a lot. You tracked him here, good job, but are you sure you could track his next move? If you worked with me, though, you would have someone on the inside. Once I have what I need from the computer, me and my people won't care what happens to him." She sipped again, and allowed a slight smile as she diverted her eyes. "Actually, it would be very much to our advantage if, after we get what we need, Gaara were to suffer a bad fall and a broken neck. As opposed to something...violent."

"You'd have to be pretty confident I could make it look like an accident."

She shrugged again. "Your behavior last night tells me you intend for it to happen that way."

"How long do you need?"

"Not long. Two days, maybe three."

"I don't have that kind of time to spare," I lied.

She smiled, her eyes alight with humor. "You need me to get to him. And you can't get to him while I'm in the way. This means you'll just have to make time.

I smiled along with her, this time genuinely. What she said was true. I didn't have a lot of attractive options.

"How do I contact you?" I asked. "I'll need to know when you're done with your job."

She gave me the number to her cell phone. "Text only. No calls."

"All right."

"I'll leave first," she said, getting up. She didn't need to explain; we didn't want to be seen together any more than necessary. She started to reach for her purse.

"Just go," I said. "I'll take care of it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Our first date?" She said it only with wry humor, not playing the coquette.

"Hmm, maybe you'd better pay up after all. I don't want you getting the wrong idea."

She looked at me for a moment, as though considering whether to say something. But in the end she only smiled, turned, and left with a wave. I had a feeling that Gaara was in for a lot of trouble from her. She was definitely a smart one, an excellent strategist. I would have to train myself to learn how to become more attractive to the ladies, level the playing field. Maybe train with old Jiraiya sometime after I finished this job.

But ironically, fate didn't seem to agree with me.

As soon as I paid the check and left, Naruto Uzumaki called my cell phone and informed me that there was now a price on my head.

And he himself had been chosen to collect.


	5. Chapter 5

**"Then you should have died! Died, rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!"**

**Sirius Black.**

I activated my cell phone, checking to see if Shikamaru had sent me the information on Sakura yet. It wasn't there, but apparently someone had tried to call me while the phone was deactivated. There was nothing in the voicemail, but the call log had recorded the number. I selected it and pressed Call. Five rings went by before someone answered.

"_Moshi moshi!"_ It was the Japanese version of hello, but this time it came with an unmistakable American accent.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I said.

"Well, some girls seem to think so, but nope, it's just me," Uzumaki said with his annoying good cheer. "Did I get the accent right?"

"Yeah, it was perfect."

"I got a feeling you're just saying that. But thanks anyway."

I sighed. "What do you want?"

"Ain't you gonna ask how I got your number?"

"Not until I put you in another leglock." It was obvious, Shikamaru had given it to him. Which meant something was up, because Shikamaru didn't just hand out numbers.

He laughed, of course. "Hey now, there's no need to skip down memory lane. There _is_, however, something important that you should hear about. In person."

I paused, thinking. "All right."

"Cool, that's good. I'll come to you. Tell me, though, I don't know Hong Kong that well, so what's the best way to get to your hotel?"

I smiled. "Taxi."

"Well, duh, but give me some directions. I like to know where I'm going."

"Just tell the driver the name of the hotel," I said. "I'm sure he'll be able to find it."

"Uhh... damn, what was the name of the place again...?" There was a pause, during which I could imagine him looking pretty irritated that his plan to find me was failing. "All right, all right, you got me. Just wanted to see if I could sneak one past you. We'll meet up wherever you want."

"Why would I want to meet up with you at all?"

"You'll want to hear this. Believe me on that."

"I'm not kidding here. Tell me what this is about, or I'll consider this call a monumental waste of my time."

I heard his sigh. "Well, I didn't want to say this over the phone, but if you insist. There's a price on your head."

My eyes narrowed. "Where are you now?"

"At a coffee shop in Central, leaning up against a wall, getting my ass checked out by some Filipina girls. I've got a feeling they like Americans."

"They must not know your preferences for sheep."

He laughed. "Hell, man, not unless you told them."

I gave him the address of a nearby, hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. "I'll be watching you when you arrive, Uzumaki. If you're not alone when you show up, or if I think something's wrong, I'm going to take it personal. And you're not going to like what happens next." That promise was answered with his admittance that, yes, he did know. We'd trained together. He had seen what I could do.

Naruto—who was American, blonde, and, most of all, Caucasian—looked decidedly out of place among the other diners, but he didn't seem to mind. The menu was entirely in Chinese, but I knew the characters and was able to point to what I wanted.

"What is this stuff?" he asked, after the soup had been served and we had begun to eat. "It's pretty tasty. Reminds me of the ramen back home."

"Good for you, too," I said. "A former Chinese running coach used to feed it to his best athletes."

"Yeah? What's in it?"

"The usual stuff. Spring water. Vegetables from the mountains. Turtle blood. Caterpillars."

He stopped, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "You serious?"

"Well, that's what it said on the menu. Now what did you have to tell me?"

He slurped the rest of his soup down and patted his stomach. I wasn't really surprised. I'd seen Naruto dine on equally unusual fare before. Always without complaint. "I had a pretty unusual meeting with a guy the other day, when I was getting recruited for my next job. Guy said his name was Johnson, but you could tell he was lying. Real name is Kabuto Yakushi, from what Granny Tsunade told me afterward. I had her pull up the file on him. You could smell lies all over the guy."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Well, that's where it gets a little interesting. He told me he represents very, very high interests in the U.S. government. But that, for reasons of national security, he couldn't tell me what the nature of those interests was. The guy liked to hear himself talk. Anyway, he told me that there apparently was a former undercover operative out in the field who had gone rogue and killed a bunch of friendlies over here in Hong Kong, and who needed to be 'removed,' is what he said. I asked, 'Removed?' --having fun with the guy now, understand-- and he nodded and said, with his voice _way_ serious, the way I guess he imagines Really Important Guys should talk, 'We want his actions terminated.' God help me, I couldn't stop myself. I said to him, with my eyes all wide: 'With Extreme Prejudice?' And he just nods once, like he was afraid if he did it a second time it could get him in trouble."

"And then?"

"Oh, same old same. The usual praise for my past services for my country and appeals to my patriotism. You know the drill. Then he tells me I get twenty-five grand up front, and seventy-five grand just waiting for me after I complete the tiny service Uncle Sam asks of me."

"And you said?"

"Why, that it would be an honor to serve my country on this most dangerous and critical occasion. He gave me a file, shakes my hand, thanks me again for my patriotism, and walks away. I open the file, and who does this rogue operator turn out to be? Why, none other than my buddy from the old days, the intelligent and charming--but still pretty ugly--Mister Sasuke Uchiha. Looks like someone's got it out for you."

I nodded, considering. "Why are you telling me all this? Why not do the job and take the money?"

He smiled. "I'll tell you, there are some jobs a real man just doesn't accept, not even to take out a creepy brother like you. I figure us bad boys need to keep each other alive every now and then, seeing as how no one else really seems to care. Besides, you and I worked pretty well together, back when we were both in Konoha. I was the only white guy there, and I always got the feeling that the other guys there seemed a little fond of stereotypes. Made me feel like I wasn't welcome. You weren't like that. I'm not saying that we acted like long-lost brothers, but you didn't have that big of a problem with me, either."

I shrugged. He was mistaken. At first, I had hated the guy for simply being assigned to train beside me. I work better alone. But later on Uzumaki had proven to me that he wouldn't slow me down. "You were good in the field."

He nodded and started to say something, then looked down and swallowed. I wasn't expecting him to believe me. I don't believe in honesty and brotherhood. So it took me a second to realize that Uzumaki was having trouble with his emotions. After a moment he looked at me, his eyes determined, almost fierce. "And that's all that should count."

I didn't want to start up a love scene, so I switched topics. "Well, I think I know what to do with this information."

"Yeah? You got a plan already?"

"A little. Why do you suppose this Kabuto has it out for me?"

"That I don't know. All I could get out of the guy was that bullshit about how you'd gone rogue and needed silencing. Information was on a 'need to know basis', of course."

"And he didn't think you needed to know."

He sighed in mock dejection. "Yeah. Even though I'm such a patriot and all. Kind of hurts my feelings when I think about it. Oh, well. I still have that twenty-five grand left to pick up my spirits."

We were quiet for a few seconds. "I can reach you at the number I've got?" I asked.

"Anytime you need to," he said, getting up. "What are you going to do?"

"Make a few calls. Figure out what makes sense."

He flashed the grin again. "You always were the cautious type."

"That's why I've lasted so long." I stood and put some bills on the table. Then I held out my hand. "You're a good man, Naruto."

He stood and smiled back, a lower wattage this time, but still genuine. We shook. "You watch your back, Sasuke."

I nodded and left. Caught a cab back to the hotel. Didn't look back. When I got to my room, I sat on the bed for a long time and contemplated on what I had just learned. Why was someone after me? Did they know that I had messed up the hit? Would I still get paid if I did it anyway? Obviously, I was going to have to finish this thing with Gaara. It was time for another evening with Sakura.

Sakura.

Had Shikamaru come through with the information on her yet? I called him, checking to make sure that it was late.

_"Nanda?"_ I heard him say, in an unusually curt greeting. What is it?

"Anything yet?" I asked him.

There was a pause. He responded, "I was just about to call you."

Coming from Shikamaru this was practically sentimental. "What have you got for me?"

"Not much, a little. Check this out: twice in the past, a player we would describe as part of the terrorist infrastructure--finances and logistics, not a foot soldier or bomb-maker-- has been spotted with a striking Asian girl. Each time, within two months of the spotting, the guy in question is found shot to death."

Well, it was something.

"We don't have anything else concrete on the girl. No name, nothing. No one has ever made a connection before, and I probably wouldn't have, either, if you hadn't pointed me in the right direction."

Something in his voice. "And?"

You could practically hear his shrug. "Well, I don't think this girl's presence in the lives of two, soon to be three, men is a coincidence. My guess is, she's working these guys, setting them up. Both of the guys she was with were killed while traveling, not at choke points like their homes or in the company of known associates. One while passing through Vienna, the other through Seattle. Meaning someone was tracking them closely."

I shook my head. "No good. It could be her, all right, but there are other ways to triangulate on a moving target. You guys didn't have to sleep with Gaara to tell me where I could find him, I hope."

"Let's just say that Gaara has a certain satellite phone that he wrongly thinks is clean. There's a little more that you need to know, though. Both bad guys were found dead from a single twenty-two-caliber gunshot to the eye. Even from close up, that's one hell of a shot. Whoever pulled the trigger is confident enough to use something with low penetration power because he knows he can place the shot in the one spot where it can do the most damage."

"_He_? The girl's not the shooter?"

"I don't think so. I think she's the spotter. She's like a very specialized mole. She gets vetted by the target, passes the tests, gets inside. The target is still taking security precautions, of course, but there's a hole in his security: he's sleeping with it. Then, when she knows the time is right, she makes the call. That night, the guy she's with meets up with a bullet to the head. She's not there when it happens, and she vanishes afterward. No one knows she was involved."

"Who's she working for, then?"

"Don't know. A lot of possibilities, because these guys like Gaara have a lot of enemies. Could be a business competitor. Could be the French--they've got their fingers in everything these days, and they know how to train their women. But my guess is that it's an Israeli operation. The Israelis have the most constant and immediate motive to disrupt the infrastructure of weapons deals, anyway they can. Their assassination teams like to use twenty-twos--they're small, concealable, and relatively quiet. And because the shooter is so good. The whole quality of the thing just says _Mossad."_

"Come on." That was pretty far-fetched. "You think she's Mossad?"

"Not sure. She's not Isreali, yet it's so crazy it might begin to make sense. But I'm most likely wrong. I told you, she could also be working for a private company. Or maybe she's just another freelance assassin. You know those freelancers," he said, speaking straight to my heart. "They'll work for just about anyone."


	6. Chapter 6

**"The resistance of a woman to a man's advances is not always a sign of virtue. Sometime's it's just a sign of experience."**

**Ninon de Lenclos.**

I shaved in the shower, then soaked for twenty minutes in the oversized tub. Changed into a black pair of trousers, a fine cotton long-sleeved shirt of the same color, and a dark brown belt. My feet were bare. I thought about Sakura. Before, I had made certain not to make assumptions as to what her nationality was, along with who she was working for. Yet I'd had a feeling, pending further investigation, that she was from an exotic background. Partly it was her appearance, her manner, the way she dressed. And Shikamaru's suggestion that she was part of the Mossad didn't seem wrong. It was a possibility, one that was becoming increasingly more likely. I decided that I would have to test her.

I wondered how I was going to get the information I needed from her, even while I used the lobby phone to call Sakura.

"_Allo?"_

"Room five-forty-four," I told her as a way of greeting. "Now."

"Thirty minutes," she said. And then she hung up before I could argue.

She was probably trying to throw me off-balance, gain just a little leverage by forcing me to wait. Forcing me to deal with something I wasn't expecting. Two could play at that game. There was a liquor store near the phone, and on impulse, I went inside. I found a bottle of thirty-year-old Laphroaig for twenty-five hundred Hong Kong dollars; about three hundred U.S.

Expensive. But life is so short.

There were a small selection of CDs by the register, and I picked up a few. Eva Cassidy, _Live at Blues Alley._ Chris Botti, _When I fall in love. _Mark Douthit, _Groove_. All of them good, the next best thing to being there.

I took everything back to my room and took two crystal glasses and a bucket of ice from the minibar. Set them down on the coffee table with the Laphroaig, along with a bottle of mineral water. The CDs were inserted into the room's multidisk player, programmed for "Random and Repeat." A moment later, the music started filling the room. I paused, listening to Chris Botti doing "No Ordinary Love," the melody and melancholy notes seeming to clarify, and somehow frame, my feelings about Sakura: part pleasant anticipation at seeing her again, but mostly deadly concern at her possible role in this game. If she was Mossad, and if she turned out to be an enemy, I would have my hands full.

The Mossad is the national intelligence agency for Israel, very similar to the American CIA. They dealt with the collection of intelligence, counter-terrorism, covert ops like paramilitary activities and assassinations, and so on. What makes them uniquely special is that their country's main lifestyle for the past two thousand years has been fighting one war after another. So their blades were always sharp. They trained their soldiers very, very thoroughly, and as consequence they were the best at what they did.

There was a knock on the door that broke me away from my thoughts. I unlocked the door and Sakura slipped inside without a word. Feeling secure for a split second, I took in a few details. She was wearing a midnight blue dress, something fine, maybe raw silk. It was cut just above the knee, with three-quarter-length sleeves that hid her shoulders, and a deep V cut in the back. Her shoes were patent leather stilettos with open toes. There was a handbag to match the shoes, and a silver Doxa watch encircling her left wrist. It was a man's watch, large and heavy, but somehow seemed to accentuate her femininity. Her hair was swept back and away from her face. Overall, she looked controlled and sleek, sophisticated and sexy.

None of it, especially the shoes, would be ideal for combat, escape, or evasion (if it came to that). I realized that she must have chosen it for some type of operational imperative.

There are all sorts of weapons in the world, and I reminded myself that when this girl was dressed for work she was anything but unarmed.

"Sorry for the wait," she spoke first. "It's not easy to get away sometimes."

"I understand."

She reached into her purse and took out her cell phone to show me that it was turned off and unconnected to anyone who might be listening in. Then she opened her purse so I could see that there was nothing else inside that could be seen as problematic. I nodded to show that I was satisfied. "Okay."

She raised her arms away from her sides and looked at me. She smiled in that sly, subversive way she had--a little bit teasing, but mostly amusement, and inviting for others to join in the amusement.

"You're not going to search me?"

"Not necessary." Nor would it be wise. My heart had started to run at a slightly higher pace at just the prospect of getting my hands on her body. "We trust each other for now, right?"

She lowered her arms, letting the smile linger for a minute and looking away. "Should I take off my shoes?"

"Why?" I asked, thinking of that idiot shoe bomber who had tried to bring down that flight from Paris a few years back.

She shrugged. "Isn't that the custom in Japan?"

Cute. A way for her to confirm a biographical detail about me, to increase or decrease the probability that the guy her 'people' were looking for was obviously me. She'd have to do better than that. "I think they do it in houses, not so much in hotels," I said. "Either way is fine."

She bent forward, raised her right leg behind her, and rached around to a strap at the back of her ankle. She didn't need to touch the wall or otherwise support herself to perform this maneuver. Her balance was good. But I had already seen that in Gaara's suite, when she had nearly torn my head off with that elbow shot. She repeated the maneuver with the other shoe. In the half-light where we stood by the door I caught a tantalizing glimpse of skin and curves as the front of her dress slipped momentarily away from her body. The view wasn't accidental, I knew, but it was undeniably a nice one.

I took off my shoes as well, and lead her into the room. She glanced over at the coffee table. "Laphroaig?"

"Thirty years old," I said, nodding. "You know it?"

She nodded back. "One of my favorites. I like it even better than the forty. That sherry finish...just great."

_Not bad_, I thought. She was right. The thirty-year-old, finished in sherry casks, mingles ocean tang and sherry sweetness like no other whisky. It offers a smell and taste unparalleled even among Laphroaig's other outstanding bottles. I wondered what else she would know. She was obviously adept when it came to combat, clothes, spycraft. And now whiskey. What else? Food? Wine? Poetry? Cultures? Tantric sexual techniques?

I tried not to speculate too much on the last one.

We sat near the coffee table, Sakura took the couch with her back to the wall, while I took the stuffed chair near the couch. My back was to the wall and the front door, but for tonight I had a feeling that the most danger would be coming from her, not from the possible dozen hatchet-wielding ninjas waiting for me in the hallway. She was better to look at, anyway.

"Would you like a glass?"

"I'd love one. Just a drop of water."

I poured us each a healthy measure in the crystal tumblers, adding a drop of water to hers as she had requested. I handed her a glass, raised mine, and said, "_L'Chaim," _smiling with my eyes as I did so.

She paused, looking at me. "I'm sorry?"

I smiled innocently, if that's even possible on my face. "It means, 'To life.' Isn't that the custom in Israel?"

For one second, I thought she looked angry, and then she smiled. _"Kanpai," _she said, and we both smiled as we drank. It was a good recover, I would grant her that, but that pause, and the momentary reaction that had followed it, was enough of a tell. After a minute she asked, "How much do you know about me?"

"Not a lot. Mostly speculation. Probably the same amount you know about me."

"You think I'm Israeli?" She gestured to her smooth face, her slanted eyes, her white skin, her straight hair. "Don't you think that's a little much?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, you're right. Beautiful young woman, can identify a SoldierVision on sight, knows how to handle herself and then some, trying to set up an arms dealer who supports various anti-Islamic warlords and terrorist cells... how could she be trained by, and working for, the Isrealis? I don't know what I was thinking. Call me crazy."

"Is that really all you're going on?" One hand was slightly raised, palm upturned, as if making the sign for a question mark.

"What else would there be?" I took another sip of the whisky, and cut to the chase. "Sakura, I need to know his next move."

She stayed silent for a second, considering. "You're being hasty. That's not like you, seeing as how you're more of a cautious type. If I give you the information of Gaara's next vulnerable opportunity, it could cost me a great deal. I haven't gotten what I need from the computer."

Christ, what was she waiting for, him to die of old age? "Then tell me where he's scheduled to be in a few days," I said. "This is something I really need to know."

She looked at me squarely, displaying some aggressiveness. "We understand each other. We understand the situation we're both in. The more you push me, the more you compromise my ability to carry out my mission. And the more dangerous you make it for me personally. The people I work with recognize this. They know I'm here with you, right now. At some point, they will decide to overrule me when I tell them not to hurt you."

I put down my glass and stood up.

"Sakura," I said slowly, my voice dropping an octave the way it always does when I feel I'm seconds away from having to take decisive action, "we're here to find a way to coexist peacefully. You constantly parading the fact that you have an army behind you doesn't help either of us. Don't make me decide that you're a threat."

"Or what?" she said, looking up at me.

I didn't answer.

She put her glass down too, then stood and faced me. "Are you going to break my neck? Most men couldn't--I'm not a flower, you know--but I know you could. You're an assassin."

She took a step closer to me. I felt an adrenaline surge...but I couldn't identify the reason behind it. A second ago I had reacted to her the way I reflexively do when something reveals itself to be dangerous, but now...I wasn't sure. It was hard to put it in the right context. My increased heart rate forced my lungs to breathe faster, but I controlled it, not wanting her to see.

"Maybe I _am_ a threat to you," she said, her voice even. "Not because I want to be, but because of the situation. It doesn't matter my intentions, does it? A threat is a threat. So? You're a professional, right? Do what you have to do. Eliminate the threat." She took a step closer, close enough for me to smell her, to feel something coming off of her body, heat or some electrical thing. I felt more adrenaline push its way through my chest and gut.

"No?" she asked, drilling into my eyes with her own. "Why not? You know how it's done. Here." She reached down for my hands and brought them up to her neck. Her skin was warm and very smooth. I could feel her pulse against my fingers. It was beating surprisingly hard, as fast as mine. I could feel her breath against my arms, hear it moving in and out through her nose. I hadn't meant to try and bluff her, but somehow I had. And now she was calling me on it. _Fuck._

She lowered her arms to her sides now and tilted her chin slightly upward, the posture maximally submissive, and yet at the same time it was mocking and insolent. I looked down at the shadowed hollows of her throat and was almost defeated by the thought of how easy it would be to sweep my hands down over her shoulders, catching the material of her dress along the way, bringing the garment down to her waist and belly in one smooth motion, exposing her breasts, her skin, her sex.

It was there if I wanted it. Right there, ready for the taking, only two slight hand movements away. I knew that, and I knew this was by design, our moves to be choreographed on her terms, where she offered what I wanted like a kind pet owner offering milk to a kitten, maybe petting its head while it greedily lapped at the leavings.

I was suddenly angry. The feline imagery helped. I removed my hands from her neck and took a careful step away from her. My mouth had gone dry. I picked up the glass and took a long, slow swallow. And another. Sat back down, as slowly and calmly as I could.

"I was right about you," I said, leaving her standing there. "You really can't help yourself. This is all you've got."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and I knew I was right. I'd competed against men like her in training halls around the world. They had their money move, one technique that always worked for them, but if you could get past that one move, if you could survive it and keep fighting, they were off their game and couldn't recover.

"What's it like, having that power?" I went on. "It must be difficult, talking to a guy without trying to give him a hard-on. What are you going to do in a few years from now, after your pheromones have all dried up? I don't see much else to you. Maybe there was, once. a long time ago. But there's not much left now, is there?

Her eyes narrowed more and her ears seemed to flatten against her skull in an almost feral anger response. _It's about fucking time I got the upper hand on her._

"Are you going to sit down?" I asked, gesturing to the couch. "Like I told you before, I'm not going to fuck you. And I'm not here to kill you. It takes a lot of preparation to make it look like an accident, and I'm too tired to get rid of your body tonight."

She grimaced in the way that made me wonder if she had just imagined herself beheading me with a rusty spoon, and dipped her head forward as if to say, _All right. Message recieved._

She moved back to the couch and finished what was in her glass. I picked up the bottle to pour her another. She raised the glass as I did so and I noticed, along with her, that both of our hands were shaking.

"Why don't we call that a tie," I offered. A peace offering.

She smiled and took a sip of what I'd poured. "You're good, you know. Exceptional."

"Yeah, so are you. You almost dropped me back in Gaara's suite."

She shrugged. When she spoke, she used her hands again. "I had surprise on my side. You wouldn't have been expecting much from a naked woman."

"Maybe not. But you used what you had. What technique was it?"

The question was straightforward and to the point, very unlike me, but I wasn't trying to trick her into revealing anything at the moment. I was too annoyed with all the secrets by now. She looked at me for another long moment, studying me, weighing the pros and cons, before finally exhaling and relaxing. "Krav Maga."

I nodded. Krav Maga--loosely translated as Contact Combat--is the self-defense system developed by the Israeli Defense Forces. It dealth with very fast, very brutal attacks that were delivered with the intention of maximum damage to the reciever. There were plenty of clips of it on Youtube. In this modern day and age it's taught all over the world, so experience with using the system certainly doesn't mean the practitioner is Israeli. But Sakura already knew I suspected whom her allegiance lay with, and in this context, her acknowledgement served also as a tacit admission. I wondered how best to pursue the slight opening she seemed to have deliberately created. I started with the truth.

"I like Krav Maga. From what I know about it, it's very practical."

"It's all in how it's taught," she said, nodding. "And how you train. Most martial arts are taught as religions, teaching things that are based on faith instead of fact, even if they're not sure it's a solid faith. But I don't have that luxury. I need to use something that I _know_ works." She took another sip, recalling memories. "They took it a step further for me than for most, because my missions are special. I'm alone in the field for a long time, usually without access to any weapon. Or at least, a usual weapon."

"How'd they train you?"

She looked straight at me again. "You know how. A lot of scenario-based conditioning. A lot of contact. My nose was broken during training, can you see it? I had it fixed, but you can still see the scars if you look closely." She tilted her head, allowing me a closer view. I looked, and saw a hairline mark at the bridge of her nose, the remnants of a bad break made good by a skilled plastic surgeon. It would be invisible if you didn't know to look for it.

I was very aware that our faces were closer than usual.

"And you?"

"Mostly judo," I said. Not leaning back. "Some juijitsu."

"What else?" she asked, gesturing to my legs and torso. "The way I saw you move, the way you carry yourself, the way you watch me, and from what I can tell about you right now, you don't behave this way from doing judo as a sport."

Of course, she was referring to the fact that I knew how to kill with my bare hands. She was certain that I could have snapped her neck a few moments ago. If I could do that, there was no telling what else I knew how to do. "I learned the special stuff elsewhere. Books, and videos. I used to practice with a couple partners who shared some of my interests, and we traded information and techniques every so often. But it helps to have spent some time in combat, a few years or so. That's when you start to develop a certain attitude towards learning what you can, wherever you are."

For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

Then she asked, "What are you thinking?"

I waited a second, then said, "I like how you use your hands when you talk."

She glanced down at her hands for a second, as though checking to see whether they were doing something right then, and she laughed quietly. "I don't usually do that. You pissed me off." She looked away from me, probably mentally scolding herself.

"You weren't only doing it when you were pissed."

"Oh. Well, I do it when I forget myself."

"How often does that happen?"

"Rarely."

"You should do it more often."

"It's dangerous."

"Why?"

She looked back at me. I didn't look away. The look was noticeably long, definitely frank. Possibly inviting. "Tell me why you really wanted me to come here tonight."

I got up and sat next to her on the couch. One of her eyebrows rose a notch and she said, "This is unexpected." But she was smiling a little, those warm notes of irony and humor in her eyes. "Some people might call what you're doing 'mixed signals,'" she said.

I looked at her for another moment, then leaned slowly forward. She watched me, her eyes focusing on mine, then dropping momentarily to my lips, moving back to my eyes again. I paused. Our faces were a few centimeters apart. I could smell her perfume, something I had never smelled before. She smelled nice.

I leaned my head forward and kissed her.

She accepted the kiss but didn't exactly embrace it, and after a moment I drew back slightly and looked at her.

"I thought you said you weren't going to fuck me."

"I'm not."

"You just kissed me."

"I have a problem with following rules. Even the ones I make up."

"A few minutes ago you were shooting me down, remember?"

I shook my head. "That wasn't you. That was your character. I'm not interested in her."

"How do you know you'll be interested in what's behind her?"

"I like what I've seen so far."

"Maybe you were right. Maybe I can only be an actress. A fake."

"That would be very sad if it were true."

"You're the one who said it."

"I was trying to get under your skin."

"It worked."

"Show me I was wrong, then."

She fell silent, and looked at me again. Another long time. She leaned forward and we kissed again.

The kiss was better this time. There was an uncertainty about it, the tentativeness of a cease-fire, the sense of something moving slowly but with a lot of momentum behind it. She opened her mouth wider and our tongues met. Again, the feeling was tentative: an exploration, not a hasty charge. A testing of the waters, not a heedless plunge. A minute passed, maybe two, and the kiss grew less cautious, more passionate. Less deliberating, more a thing unto itself. It ebbed and flowed as though it were in obedience to some kind of force that was taking both of our control and dissolving it. I took in all the different aspects of her mouth; her tongue; her lips; her teeth; her tongue again; the delicious feel of the whole, this new threshold to so much of whoever she was.

She took my lower lip between her teeth and her lips and held it there a moment, then released it and gradually eased away. We looked at each other.

She bit her bottom lip.

"Damn you..."


	7. Chapter 7

**"Sex without love is merely healthy exercise." **

**Robert A. Heinlein.**

The tension between them built, stretching like a bowstring being pulled back until it was thin, taunt, ready to snap.

For a moment, their eyes met.

It was enough.

Their eyes didn't just glance into each other—they _locked_ onto each other. Him seeking her surrender to what they were both feeling; her simply seeking a way out from making this mistake. She couldn't get attached with him like this, it was so dangerous for the both of them...

"Oh, dammit," she muttered weakly. "You bastard…making me do this…"

Sakura had never been kissed so intimately before, though, and she was finding it _much_ more pleasing than any previous embrace. His body's essence, though, was something more. Something ancient and long forgotten, a strong scent that stirred Sakura in a feral manner that she'd never expected. And she kept on kissing him. He parted his lips with a growl of satisfaction, and speared his tongue deeply into her mouth. She met it with her own, and they locked in combat, eagerly. He tasted… _wild_. Untamed. Like pure, raging testosterone unleashed in human form. Their teeth met as the kiss intensified, biting, their lips pressing hard and tongues spearing in a duel old as time.

Her dress had a mind of its own; without any conscious effort on her part, the damn thing naturally slid the thin straps over her shoulders and fell, collecting into a silk ripple into the floor.

He found a nipple and squeezed, lightly at first, then harder. Sakura moaned and bowed her back, thrusting her breast more firmly into his hand. It was positively _burning_. He plucked and teased her, like it was the string on a guitar. She felt it plump and harden, so tight she thought it would burst. A wicked thrill ran through her as he suckled her bottom lip as if it were a ripe fruit, lightly bringing his sharp teeth down on her sensitive skin.

Quick as a cat, Sakura's legs leaped up and wrapped around his waist tightly, hot against his hardness. It was all she could do not to rub against him until she came.

Her arms came around his shoulders, and she almost swooned to find how muscular and strong his back felt beneath her hands. Her hips moved and ground into his pelvic area, and she could feel his hard cock straining to burst through the fabric of his pants. One of his hands speared itself into her hair, clutching at the base of her neck, while the other clasped tightly at her bottom.

His mouth moved from hers to trail a hot path downward, from her jaw, to her neck, down to the hollow at the base of her throat, where he suckled and laved. Sakura keened, a high, helpless sound of mindless nirvana. The sharp suction against her neck, coupled with her throbbing nipples and his clutched hand in her hair... it was all going to drive her insane. She'd had lovers before, but this? The mixture of pain and sex? This was practically combat!

Sharp teeth bit down on her neck, and she absolutely lost it. Her hands went to his strong back and she sank red nails into him like some sort of she-devil cat, clenching her legs tightly, humping him like a bitch in heat. Her tongue roved over his jaw, his ear, his neck.

He released her hair and placed his fingers between her legs. Her crotch was wet, completely soaked. He trailed the very tip of his fingernail between her skin the folds of her vagina, then parted them. She closed her eyes and moaned, and when he slipped two fingers inside her, so tight and tiny, her whole body shook.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him look around wildly. To the left—a dresser. He shoved her over to it. There were valuables on top. He swept them to the floor. Sakura was suddenly bent over, her arm savagely twisted behind her back, him bearing down on her arm and pinning her there with his torso. She struggled, but he was too strong.

He quickly ripped his zipper open and undid his belt, his pants pooling around his ankles before being kicked to the side. She turned her head and saw his enormous erection, and wanted it, _immediately_. He stepped between her legs and spread her thighs wide open, ending with his hands and fingers tightly grasped onto the firm muscles in her legs and naked ass. Her breathing was more like labored gasping now, yet so, she realized, was his.

Still pressing down on her, he started strumming her clit. Oh fuck, why did he have to tease her like this, didn't he know what she was practically begging for? Maybe he just wanted to torture her a little more. Torture the both of them.

"Do it," Sakura gasped. "Do it now, or I'll kill you, I swear to God."

Her heart was pounding so hard she felt it thudding in her skull. Her fingers and toes were tingling, and she breathed raggedly when he kicked her feet even farther apart and pushed his two fingers back inside her.

"Stop playing!" she ordered roughly. "Do it already!"

He pushed another finger in, pulled out, and slapped her ass hard enough to sting. She gasped, and felt _so_ incredibly turned on. There was wetness on one cheek, put there from his slap with three wet fingers, and she bit her lip sharply when he ran his tongue over it, cleaning her.

He wiped some of her wetness against the head of his cock, and slammed into her with one smooth, quick thrust. He gasped loudly, taking in such a long, ragged breath that Sakura felt the sound of it run into her. Like a feedback screech through a microphone. He started pounding into her, looking down at her. The side of her face was pressed into the smooth wood of the dresser's top, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open and panting and making tiny noises, in pain or pleasure or both, neither could tell. Her cheek was streaked with tears. He kept going. She didn't know how to slow him down. She couldn't stop him.

An eternity went by. Then another. Sakura forgot who he was, forgot who she was, forgot why they where there. There was only the dark room, the heat, and a singular rhythm as old as the rocking sea.

Sakura heard a deep growl and realized that she was making it. She opened her eyes and looked at him, pleading. "Harder. Fuck me harder. Don't stop. Don't ever stop."

He let go of her wrist and took hold of her hips with both hands. She gripped the edges of the dresser and moved up onto her toes, raising her ass higher and pushing it into him. Her lips were moving quickly, soft enough that she couldn't even hear herself. Her legs were trembling. He felt her starting to contract against him, tightening, tightening like a vise.

Sakura's lips were moving faster and faster, trying to speak words but getting nowhere. Her mind was done for, completely disoriented, and she was trying to say what she wanted but instead kept voicing it in her mind without any sound whatsoever.

_Please keep going, I need it, make me feel complete a little more before you pull out, it feels like I'm dying and living and dying and living, all at once, nobody ever did this to me, don't stop, don't stop, dear God don't stop, I can make you come, I want to feel you coming, I haven't felt your come, I want to feel it, I don't care, just get it in me, keep pushing, keep stretching me, I'm going to burst, you're like a piston, oh GOD what are you doing, how can you do this, I've never felt this, this isn't normal, sweet God I need it, I want it, don't ever stop…_

Finally, Sakura felt his cock fill her completely, stretching her walls, the texture of its exquisite friction deep in her sheath. She felt full to bursting, and it was such a deliciously wicked pleasure to be filled in such a way.

The pounding in her head seemed to fuse together with everything else, her legs, her ass, her clit, her whole body, his body above and inside her.

Pounding.

Fire.

Release.

Everything. She finally realized that she was coming, and he was coming, and it was so wet and so good. She was burning up from the inside, her entire body and bones turning to liquid, her muscles clamping up and spasming, when would it end, it was too much, so torturous, she was coming, waves were shooting out of her, he was shooting into her, she was dying, oh, it _was so fucking good she never wanted it to end!_


	8. Chapter 8

**"We're never so vulnerable than when we trust someone - but paradoxically, if we cannot trust, neither can we find love or joy**."

**Walter Anderson.**

"Three times last year, Gaara has shown up at a shipping container port in Hong Kong. Always at Container Terminal 9. He makes a call from the inside. Always between two and four in the morning. A second party shows up, money exchanges hands, and Gaara leaves. The container and its contents are gone by the next morning." Shikamaru stopped stirring the plastic straw and took a sip from his styrafoam cup. A slight wince. The coffee was apparently too hot.

"I know about the location," I told him, not drinking from my own cup. It was tea, black, and its temperature was a few degrees shy of molten lava. I had no intention of actually drinking from it. Its main purpose was as a weapon, just in case Shikamaru did something foolish and I had to make an escape. "What _you _don't seem to know is when he'll be back there."

He shrugged. "And you do?"

I smiled.

He eyed me with disbelief, then amazement. "You do, don't you? How the hell did you get that information?"

_Probably because of the way I twisted her arm._"Trade secrets. But that's not why I asked to meet up with you. You still need Gaara's death to look natural, correct?"

A nod. "No foul play."

I looked at him, hard. "Think about what you just said. Think about your interpretation on just how 'natural' it needs to be. The point of it looking natural is to avoid blame, right? Plausible deniability, that kind of thing? That way, Gaara's death would happen in such a way that all those uncomfortable questions the CIA want to avoid never get asked in the first place."

"You're right so far. What are you getting at?"

"Not all natural deaths come from heart attacks and choking on food. Foul play comes along every now and then. Especially in a business like his."

Shikamaru's brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"

"Look at it this way. One, Gaara is in Hong Kong to oversee one of his weapons deals. Two, you've got multiple people involved in a deal like that: buyer, seller, middlemen, bodyguards, bribed port officials that allow you to make the transfers without interruption. Three, you've got a lot of money changing hands."

I know that Shikamaru is smart. He probably has a better strategic mind than me, which is why I try not to talk to him very often. Revealing a personality weakness to the CIA is like handing a cattle prod to a sadist. But I was glad to see how quickly he caught on to my meaning. He looked up at me, and his mouth began to form the beginning of a smile. "Yes, that's true. A lot of people, and a lot of money."

"Those two added together makes lots of potential for...complications."

"People _do _get greedy sometimes."

"Right," I said. "How much does a bodyguard make per year? Not much, I'll tell you that. And he's spending all that time with Gaara, securing Gaara's presidential suites and then returning to his own tiny room. Like watching _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_ from the inside of a slum. He could get resentful. He could get jealous. He could get greedy..."

Shikamaru carried the idea right along. "And meanwhile, he's learning Gaara's plans. Who he's meeting with, where, and when. How much money there would be."

"He's the bodyguard, he accompanies Gaara everywhere he goes, right? Including on those trips to Container Terminal 9. As the money is changing hands..."

"He shoots Gaara."

"Right. Maybe a few other people. Then he grabs the cash and runs for it. See? You can't trust anyone these days, not even your own bodyguards. And the way it happens, both the bodyguard and the money are missing. It's obvious what happened and who did it. No uncomfortable questions need to be asked."

"But what happens to the bodyguard?"

I shrugged. "He's rich and on the run, so my guess is he would disappear without a trace."

"And the money?"

"Same as the bodyguard."

Shikamaru leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "You're a devious bastard, you know that, right?"

"_Arigato."_

"It wasn't a compliment."

* * *

There's one thing I don't do, and that is trust people.

I still had my doubts about Uzumaki, about his role in this. About why, coincidentally, someone would approach _him_ to take me out. But I knew I couldn't do the job of taking out Gaara, and God only knows how many other anonymous henchmen, without help. And I couldn't use Sakura; her cover depended on being seen elsewhere at the time of his death. To make this work I would need assistance, and I didn't have anyone else to turn to. Keeping Uzumaki close by would give me an opportunity to test him, and if I found out something I didn't like, I could always abort, reevaluate the situation, and come up with a new plan.

Using a phone booth, I called him on his cell.

"Naruto's House of Lovin' and Eatin', may I take your order?"

Sigh. Annoying as ever.

"Are you still around?" I asked.

There was a pause, where I imagined him grinning to himself. "That kind of depends on what you mean by _around. _I'm still in the area, if that's what you mean."

"How soon can you be back at that place we last ate at?" _No specifics over the phone. No names, no locations, no intelligence for anyone listening in. _

"I can be there in an hour, if you need me."

"I do. Same time as last time. See you there." I hung up and, out of habit, wiped down the phone. Then I went to an Internet cafe to do some research on a certain Hong Kong shipping container port.

* * *

"Ah, that caterpillar soup. Good stuff."

When the waitress brought over our dishes,I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. Did he really enjoy eating it, or was he trying to play me? "I'm glad to hear you like it."

"Well, it's not so much the taste. More like the results. That stuff must be the original Viagra, because as soon as I left here the other day I showed those two Filipina girls what love with Naruto is all about. I've been working on this new technique, I call it the Love Grenade--"

"I'm sure they've got some stories to tell. How are your sniping skills?"

Naruto, spoon halfway to his mouth, immediately dropped the utensil and glared at me. "Dammit, you've gone and hurt my feelings. What kind of question is that? You know how good I am. Shit, I even gave that girl Tenten a run for her money a few years back, remember her? Tiny chick never misses, but you know she was sweating during _that_ particular range contest."

"What I _meant_ was," I said slowly, "are you keeping sharp? Staying in shape, practicing, all that?"

He smiled again. "Our friends at the Culinary Institute Art school didn't hire me just for my looks. Sexy though they may be."

"Do you have access to a good rifle?"

"Hah, _access_? Last job I did, I wanted to try out the new M-40A3. Had one waiting for me the next day, along with a matching night scope and plenty of ammo for target practice, no questions asked. Liked it a lot, too. It's a little heavier than Summer, my old M-40A1, but I like the adjustable cheek piece and the recoil pad on the stock. I'm thinking of calling her Lia, what do you think?"

I decided to think of the question as rhetorical. "You've used it in the field already, right?"

"Drilled a certain bad guy through the left eye in the middle of the night at nine hundred yards. Slight crosswind, but nothing I couldn't handle."

I nodded, satisfied. I'd seen some of Uzumaki's shots before. He might enjoy exaggerating his skills with the girls of the world, but when it came to doing what he was trained to do, he was as good as he said. "I've been on a job that's gotten a lot more complicated than I expected. To finish it, I'm going to need help. If you're interested, I'll split the money with you. Plus there might be some additional cash involved, although I don't think we'll know how much until the time comes."

"Well, I'm interested, so tell me more."

I told him what he needed to know about Gaara, the shipping port, and the multiple people that would be involved with the deal. Then I pulled out a sheaf of papers from the inside of my jacket. "These are printouts of Container Terminal 9," I told him. "Take a good look and familiarize yourself with the layout."

"You've gotta be kidding," he said. "Shikamaru sent you the layout of the whole terminal already?"

"Nope. This came from one of my friends known as Google Earth."

He grinned, shuffling through the pages. "These are good, that's for sure. A nice head start. But I still need to do a walk-through. Can I get in and out of position without being seen? Will I have concealment? Can I shoot undetected? Will there be a clear line of sight to the target? Where can we hit them first?"

"We'll drive over and check the terrain out as soon as you've charged up on caterpillars."

"Well in that case, looks like I'll be having seconds, then."

* * *

I drove, taking Highway 3 to Kwai Chung and its massive container port. Uzumaki looked at the surrounding environment. When I took us along Cheung Fan road--the only path leading to the Terminal 9 gate--he looked to the opposite are and whistled slow. "Well, this _does_ look like some pretty good sniping terrain. Reminds me of home."

I glanced over to see what he was looking at, and saw a group of hills, rising to what I estimated was around three hundred feet above the road and overlooking the Terminal Nine entrance. Some of the hills were woodland, some were tall grass, some were cleared and home to what looked like partially constructed apartments. Uzumaki would have his pick of entry and exit routes, cover, concealment, and an unobstructed field of fire. He was right. It was perfect.

"Lets see here...the first thing we'll need to do is stop his car, right?" he asked.

"After you identify that it _is _his car, and not someone else."

"Right. I'd hate to take out the pizza delivery boy, I really would."

I nodded. "The only way to get there, realistically, is by car. It's not reachable by train, and the harbor has its own patrol boats, so a boat isn't likely. The only way to get in is on that single road. You'll be back in the hills, but I'll be close to everyone else, acting as your spotter. I'll have binoculars, so I'll be able to see the car coming, and I can guarantee you that Gaara will be showing up in something high class and stylish, whether or not it's armored."

Uzumaki's brow furrowed the way it always did when he was strategizing. "What if it is? Armored, I mean. I won't be able to get to him then."

"Well, you can use armor piercing rounds, can't you?"

He shrugged. "A 7.62 AP round will penetrate fifteen millimeters of armor at three hundred meters and take out a hundred and twenty millimeters of Plexiglass at the same time, no problem. But if I start capping these guys with that kind of hardware, it won't look like some bodyguard with a pistol suddenly decided to open up at close range. And you said it yourself: if it doesn't look like an inside job, we don't get paid."

"We've got some flexibility on just how much of an inside job it needs to look like. The main thing is that it should look less like an assassination, and more like an arms deal gone to hell. We might have to improvise and adapt, like we always do."

"Hey man, I'm just thinking aloud here."

"No, it's good that you are, and you're right about the armor." I thought for a minute, then asked, "What about two different magazines? One with armor piercing, one with standard rounds. It only takes two seconds to switch clips if you need the APs, right?"

"That's right. Yeah, we could do that. But another thing: What if the glass is smoked? How are you gonna know it's him?"

"If I see a car headed down this road between two and four A.M., on the same day of the arms deal, I'll be pretty confident it's not the Boy Scouts."

"Ah." He scratched his head and grinned sheepishly. "All right. So what happens after you make sure it's him?"

"That's when you take the first clear shot of the guy you can get. Just make sure the car passed through the gate already; if he goes down before that, then we'll have terminal security to deal with. I don't want to take out bystanders, and the fewer witnesses the better, anyway."

"Makes sense. I'll start with the driver, first, that way they can't hightail it out of there after the first shot. Then I'll just work my way through the rest of them."

I thought of how many people I was _sure_ would be in the car Gaara would be arriving in. "Count on a total of at least three--Gaara, the driver, and one bodyguard passenger--but maybe more. And while you're shooting from up high, I'll be up close with a sidearm. Anyone you miss I can take care of at close range."

He grinned. "Brother, I don't miss. By the time you reach that vehicle, all that'll be left is for you to reach your skinny little hand in there and pull out a briefcase stuffed with cash."

_And all that'll be left for you is to take one last shot, _I thought. _Then the cash will be all yours and you can walk away clean, even getting paid for the price I have on my head._

I needed to find a way to test him before the main event. I hadn't managed it yet.

"Sounds like a plan," I said. "Let's go. We need to order up some gear."

* * *

That night, I got a call from Sakura. What she told me wasn't something I expected.

"I've got what I need. Kill him."

She was quick and curt. The total lack of emotion in her voice was, ironically, a confession that she was highly pissed. I decided to not ask why.

"He's going to make the deal tomorrow morning, correct?" I asked.

"Correct."

"That's all I need to know."

She started to say something, and then paused.

"What is it?"

She sighed. "You need to be careful. I know you're a professional, I know that you know what you're doing. But Gaara is a very dangerous man. He's one of the few men who can act totally without care for others. There's nothing that he won't do to you if you fail again and you get caught. I know he enjoys it."

_Fail again. _I ignored the choice of words. "What do you mean? How do you know?"

"A month ago, I saw him kill two men. With his bare hands and feet. They had tried to assassinate him, but he was too fast and he killed the first one in a matter of seconds. The second one...he played with."

In my mind, I recalled Gaara's file and all of his personal information. There had been a small mentioning that he was a practicioner of Savate, otherwise known as French kickboxing. "I know about his martial arts background, Sakura."

"It's more than a background. He has a silver glove in Savate and was a ring champion. Sometimes he'll go to underground fight clubs to participate in illegal matches. He trains on sides of beef. With his kicks he can break individual ribs, one at a time, one after another, in a row, until every rib has snapped and you pass out because it hurts too much to breathe."

"He ought to go into business. 'Gaara's meat tenderizer workout.' It'll be the next Tae Bo."

She didn't laugh. "He also carries a straight razor at all times."

"Good for him."

A pause, then her voice was curt again. "I wouldn't take him so lightly."

"You know what they teach salesmen?" I asked her, my own voice becoming irritated. "Don't sell past the close. I already told you I would be careful. I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to take care of him, I'm going to do it right, I'm going to walk away and you and I most likely will never cross paths again."

She didn't answer.

"It'll be over." I said.

"I see." She was quiet for a little, before she decided to say what was on both of our minds. "Tell me, do you think that I had sex with you...tactically? To manipulate you?"

Now it was my turn to pause. "Did you?"

"That's something you'll have to decide yourself."

With those parting words, she hung up. I closed my phone, powered it down, connected it to the charger so it would have a full battery tomorrow, and laid down for bed in the same place I had been for most of my life.

Alone.


	9. Chapter 9

"**A story to me means a plot where there is some surprise. Because that is how life is: full of surprises." **

**Isaac Bashevis Singer.**

Our gear arrived three hours after we requested it. I had to admit, the Agency could move fast when they wanted to.

The package contained one handgun for me, a SIG-Sauer P250 DC, a recent addition to the famous SIG-Sauer line of pistols. Plenty of bodyguards the world over used them because they were reliable, easy to conceal beneath a jacket, and the edges were smooth enough that they wouldn't snag easily on cloth. Naruto was using Lia, his M-40A3, and he already had all the rounds he would need separated into two twenty-round ammo clips. I had to admit, the rifle was a smooth piece of work: smoke black with no possibility of shiny give-away-my-position glare, a tripod for steady aim, 6x42mm illuminated mil-dot reticle scope, and integral muzzle flash suppressor. While he wouldn't be completely silent, he would be invisible, which was deadly enough.

The package also contained binoculars-- gorgeous, mechanically stabilized Zeiss 20x60 nightvision glasses with antireflective lenses-- and communication gear: earpieces, lapel mikes, twin radios, and (most high-tech) a parabolic microphone for listening in on distant conversations. It was a new design, one that was able to be folded up and placed in a jacket pocket.

"Never used one of them before," Naruto said. "That thing really works?"

I nodded. "This is a new one. It should be able to bring in conversation from three hundred yards out. I'll be able to listen to you with the radio earpiece in my right ear, and the parabolic earpiece in my left."

Naruto decided the best time to leave would be two hours before showtime, so we left for the dockyards at midnight. On the drive up, we reviewed the plan one last time, and then separated to take our positions: Naruto lying in high grass about two hundred yards away from the target zone, myself lying in a ditch about thirty feet away from the road, facing the gate amidst wood pallets and mounds of trash. We were facing each other across a gulf of around six hundred and fifty feet, with our targets intending to arrive and stay right between us.

Also, it provided cover from Naruto's postion in case I was wrong about him and he turned his crosshairs on me. But it was still dangerous; he could just as easily find a new position. I wish I had found a way to test him earlier, but it was too late now.

At a little after three o'clock in the morning, I saw a dark car coming down the road. A Lexus, driving slowly. I raised the binoculars: there were two caucasians in the front, neither with red hair. The back looked empty, but the car's interior was too dark to be sure. I was half-expecting, by some crazy turn of events, for Sakura to be in there, although I knew it would be totally illogical on her part if she were. Her role to Gaara, if I was right, was such that he would want to keep her seperated from his business transactions.

_"That him?"_ I heard Naruto's voice clearly through the earpiece.

"Not sure yet. Too much glare on the windows from the streetlights, not enough light in the car. Hold on."

The car continued driving closer, and I got a look into the back seat. There was a man sitting there, alone, but his hair was black, not red. He was so still he could have been asleep.

"It's not him. These guys must be the buyers."

_"Roger that."_

The Lexus went through the gate, parked, and the two men in the front got out to look around. They looked Russian to me: broad cheekbones, blond crew cuts, white skin shining unhealthily in the light cast by the shipping facility behind them. They seemed uncomfortable in their dark suits, neither of which fit particularly well, and each was wearing a bright red tie. Former military, I guessed, men unaccustomed to wearing anything that wasn't battle dress, choosing their ties in overreaction to a previous lifetime of nothing but olive drab.

_"Looks like a drug deal in the making,"_ I heard Naruto say. He was right, it did have that air of illegal activity to it.

"It's good that the bodyguards got out, though," I said. "If this deal takes place outdoors, it'll be easier than shooting through car windshields and armored rooftops. You can just drop the target when he steps out of his own car. You're loaded up with the regular ammo, right?"

_"Right, unless you need me to switch to the AP."_

"Good. Hang tight."

_"Roger that."_

I had a quick thought--_Why can't he be this calm all the time?--_and then it was back to watching and waiting. Five minutes passed in silence, with the two Russians lighting smokes and the lone figure in the back of the car just waiting silently.

But, inevitably, two different vehicles arrived. The front was a black Mercedes with tinted windows, leading a large white van. It was impossible to see who was driving either.

"We've got two more vehicles approaching."

_"Yeah, I see them. These guys sure have fine taste in cars."_

The vehicles passed through the gate, which was then closed by one of the Red Ties. They parked, killed the engines, and everyone got out of their respective vehicles. Two Arabs were in the white van, and two more were in the Mercedes; I recognized the bodyguard duo from the hotel. The third person to climb from the rear seat of the Mercedes was small in stature, with red hair, and Irish American features. Gaara.

Bingo.

"He's here," I said. "The one who just climbed out of the rear seat of the Mercedes."

Gaara walked over to the Red Ties. I watched as they shook hands.

_"The Carrot Top who's shaking hands right now with the Ivans?"_

"That one, yeah."

_"Weasel-looking little guy. Say the word and I'll drop_ _him."_

"Let's give them a few more seconds. I don't see any money yet, and I don't want to have to dig it out of a locked trunk or something. I'm going to listen in on them, so keep him in your sights."

_"Roger that. He's not going anywhere."_

I aimed the parabolic microphone and listened. The reception was pretty good. Everyone was exchanging greetings in English, good to see you, thanks for coming all this way, yadda yadda. It was when the statue-still guy in the back of the Lexus finally got out of the car that things began to get interesting. He was Asian, with long black hair and a face that looked more shrewdly amused than serious. One of the Red Ties gestured to him and said, "Mr. Gaara, allow me to introduce to you to our friend in the CIA. He goes by the name Orochimaru."

A thunderbolt thought: _What the FUCK? _

Gaara shook hands with him. "I wasn't aware of your organization, my friend. I hope this doesn't complicate things."

Orochimaru answered with supreme confidence. "Of course not. I'm fortunate enough to have some flexible superiors when it comes to my profession." His voice was smooth and low, reassuring as a life raft in shark-infested waters. It didn't sound like a boast, just a matter-of-fact response to a simple question. "Every now and then I ask them to look the other way while I conduct business. Tonight is one of those occasions." Gaara might have pressed on, but Orochimaru's self-possession seemed to settle the matter. Instead, the weapons dealer simply reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a small packet, holding it out with one hand.

"Cigarette?" he offered, extending the pack of Camels out.

Orochimaru smiled, unblinking, and I was reminded of a snake. "Why, thank you."

I wanted to hear more. What kind of weapons did the fucking _CIA_ want that the country couldn't make themselves? Was this part of the information Sakura had needed before giving me the green light? And who were these Russian Red Ties, anyway? Why didn't CIA Operative Orochimaru have American bodyguards? Most importantly, where was the money?

But at some point, the quest for perfect intelligence becomes an excuse for failure to act. The situation was different than I had imagined it earlier, but it could easily change. I didn't want to delay any longer.

I spoke in a whisper. "You ready?"

_"Sure I am. Been waiting on you, that's all."_

"Start with Gaara. Then the Asian guy who came with him. Then the two guys wearing red ties, they look ex-military to me, so they might cause a problem. That's just going to leave the Arabs, and they don't look like a problem. They're going to figure out the general direction of the shots that take out thier boss, so they'll probably use the vehicles as cover. When you can't see them anymore, their backs will be facing me. I'll take them out."

_"Sounds like a plan. T-minus five..."_

At that exact moment, Gaara, Orochimaru, and the Russians moved around to my side of the van. I heard Naruto curse.

_"Dammit. Lost my shot."_

"Don't worry, I see them. They're just talking. Gaara is gesturing at the inside of the van. I think they're just discussing transport arrangements, says that the keys are already in the ignition, everything's ready to go...nothing vital. Wait one."

Aiming the mike, I heard Gaara speak. "You have the money, I presume?"

Orochimaru nodded. "In the trunk. Would you like to count it?"

"It would take a long time to count five million dollars."

"Ah, true. But I doubt I would find it boring"

_Holy shit,_ I thought. _Five million? What the hell is he selling to this guy?_

There were a few laughs from all who understood English, and some nervous smiles from Gaara's Arab friends as one of them was handed a hefty duffel bag from a Red Tie. With the sight of such a high prize in view, I gripped the handle on the microphone tightly, willing them to step out from behind the van so Naruto could do his job and we could start dividing the bonus to our own payroll.

"Did you see that duffel bag?" I asked him.

_"Sure did. What's in it?"_

"I'm a little reluctant to tell you. It might affect your aim."

_"Funny. There isn't a distraction on this planet that can affect my shooting, partner. When I'm looking through this scope, I could be getting a blowjob from Jessica Alba with the Maxim Calendar girls giving me a massage with their tongues, and I wouldn't even know it."_

"Excuse me for a second. I need to drive a hot poker through my mind's eye."

He chuckled._ "Well, what's in the bag?"_

"Five million U.S., from the sound of things."

_"Oh? That's good."_ His tone was soft and even, and I realized he was telling the truth. When he was in sniping mode, he wasn't going to be distracted by anything not directly related to the task at hand. Which was very good.

At the moment, the sliding doors on the van were finally opened, and Orochimaru peered inside. Gaara gestured silently with one hand, blocking my view of the weapons he had inside the vehicle with his body, and let Orochimaru do a visual inspection. A minute passed, with Orochimaru's head turning this way and that, examining the inside of the van and muttering to himself softly enough that the microphone couldn't pick him up. Then he turned and faced Gaara, smiling.

"Everything seems in perfect order." They nodded heads at each other, almost like formal bows, and then shook hands. Everyone seemed to relax. The deal was done, the money had exchanged hands, the merchandise was in the van (keys presumably still in the ignition), and no unexpected surprises had occurred. Everyone was cool.

Everyone, that is, except Gaara's driver. He was the bodyguard who had taken the duffel bag of cash from one of the Red Ties. He was fidgeting, looking from one face to another, and couldn't stand still to save his life. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead through the high definition lenses of my binoculars. Which was odd, considering the cool temperature of the night. No one else seemed to notice. They'd all been worried about so many things--betrayal, the law, problems with the merchandise, problems with the money--none of which had happened. It was natural that their guards were down now, if only for a moment.

Gaara noticed first.

He glanced over to the bodyguard, and his brow furrowed. He said something quick and short in Arabic, something I couldn't translate. For a second, maybe less, an electric tension seemed to build. I could see Gaara getting ready to do something, his center of gravity dropping, his legs coiling beneath him. His instincts were excellent, perhaps dulled just this once because the source of the problem was a bodyguard, a servant, a direction from which he hadn't expected trouble to come.

Orochimaru looked over at the bodyguard as well. And, possessing a sharp set of instincts of his own (but without the personal relationship that had perhaps slowed down Gaara's own reaction by just a fraction of a second), he shot his hand toward the inside of his jacket. But it was too late.

The bodyguard had started his own move a split second earlier. By the time the CIA operative's hand had disappeared under his jacket, the bodyguard had reached both hands into his waistband and pulled out a pistol in each tight fist. He pointed both at Gaara, then Orochimaru, and said something.

Everyone froze.

Orochimaru slowly pulled his hand from the inside of his jacket.

It was empty.

Gaara was looking at the bodyguard, his expression shocked and incredulous and highly pissed off. He shouted something that I couldn't catch, but I could presume it went along the lines of _What the fuck do you think you're doing?_

"Holy shit." I couldn't believe it. "The bodyguard just pulled a gun on both the buyer and the seller."

_"Say what?"_

"I think..." It had been possible, of course, but I had never imagined that it could happen. "You know that inside betrayal job we were going to fake?"

_"Don't tell me..."_

"I think it's actually happening for real."


	10. Chapter 10

"**Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."**

**Walter Anderson.**

Over at the exchange scene, everyone seemed momentarily stunned. Except Gaara. He was yelling at the bodyguard in Arabic, cursing him from the sound of his tone and the spit flying from his mouth. The bodyguard was yelling back, gesturing with the guns, pointing them from man to man. Nobody else was moving, nobody else was talking.

Not so with myself. "I want to find out what's going on, so I'm going to listen in. But if Gaara shows his head, make sure you drop him. No more chances."

_"Roger that. One dead redhead comin' right up."_

I focused on Orochimaru. He was actually adjusting the tie around his neck. Totally unconcerned at the guns being waved around by a seemingly desperate madman. He checked the time on his watch. "Mr. Gaara, can you tell me what he is saying, please," he said in words that were smooth and calm. "I'm afraid I don't speak Arabic."

"Yes, what in fuck is going on here!" one of the Red Ties added loudly. Orochimaru raised a hand slowly, palm facing the man, gesturing politely for a moment of silence so he could do the talking.

"Take out your guns!" the bodyguard was shouting. "Slowly! Put them on the ground and kick them away! Slowly, slowly, or I will start shooting!"

Gaara never took his eyes off the man. His lips had pulled back from his teeth, and his body was coiled like a circus lion wanting to pounce on its tamer. It was quite obvious that only the guns prevented him from doing so.

"Mr. Gaara, please. I need to know what he said."

Snarling, the weapons dealer responded. "He says that he is stealing the shipment, Orochimaru-san. To which I answer to him like so:" Then he let out another abusive stream of Arabic.

"Guns on ground!" the bodyguard yelled back. "This is last warning!"

The men did as he said. All six of them removed a pistol from a waistband or a shoulder holster and slowly placed them on the ground, sliding them forward across asphalt with toes. Apparently everyone had enough experience with guns to know that kicking them away could set off a round, killing any one of them. Or striking the contents inside the truck, which were probably fragile and unstable enough to blow up not just them, but myself as well. Orochimaru removed a twin set of his own pistols and set them to either side of his feet. Gaara did not remove anything, but the bodyguard seemed untroubled by that. Apparently Gaara wasn't in the habit of packing firearms. After all, that was why he had hired men to protect him.

"Now hands in the air! Hands up!"

Everyone complied.

I wondered how far he was going to take the situation. The psychology of a criminal who suddenly realizes he has total, absolute control over another human life is rarely stable. His ambitions grow, his original aim can change from simple to multiple objectives. A nervous armed robber, upon seeing his victims cowering before him like servants before an emperor, realizes that not only can he rob these people, he can do _anything_ to them. What starts as a simple armed purse snatch often escalates into sadism, often rape. So if this went on for another minute or so, I could imagine the bodyguard thinking that it would be best not to leave witnesses, or anyone present who might bear a grudge.

I watched through the binoculars, amazed. With just a little luck, this really could go perfectly. The bodyguard executes everyone, and Naruto drops him as he reaches for the money. Or they all start shooting at each other, and I take out the "survivors".

But even as I imagined it, I knew there was something wrong. The bodyguard wasn't doing anything productive. He held everyone at bay using the guns, but he wasn't killing anyone, and he wasn't going for the money. He was putting himself into an unnecessary stalemate. There could only be one reason, and even as I figured out what it could be, the answer arrived in the form of a new complication: a silver Toyota Camry, approaching the gate, bright headlights cutting through the darkness like twin blades of the sun.

_Fuck. He's got friends coming to pick him up and take off with the cash and the weapons._

Orochimaru was watching closely, body language betraying no undue worry, yet eyes studying both the bodyguard and the arriving Toyota. It was obvious what he was thinking, because I was thinking it as well: the traitor couldn't start shooting now because it was six against one. He couldn't shoot all of them before someone tackled him and got the guns. But once the car arrived, carrying at most five other armed henchmen, then everyone being held at gunpoint right now would be dead.

Orochimaru gestured at one of the Red Ties. "Alexei, please pick up the money bag. I'm afraid I don't care for it falling into unfamiliar hands."

"Don't!" the gunman yelled at the taller of the two Russians. "I'll shoot you!"

"No, you won't. You're not fast enough, and you're not going to risk it until that car arrives within the next fifteen seconds. Once you fire one shot, the rest of us will kill you. I'm sure Mr. Gaara is hoping for a chance." He turned an unblinking snake eye to his man. "Now, please get the bag so we may go. You know what awaits us if you don't."

The Russian nodded with fear, walked quickly and jerkily to the bag on the floor, and picked it up. His head promptly exploded.

The traitorous bodyguard hadn't pulled the trigger. Perhaps he had been willing to let the money go.

Too bad Naruto wasn't.

The bodyguard's mouth dropped open. And in that instant of surprise, Orochimaru dropped down to one knee, pulled a pistol free from an ankle holster, and shot the man square in the face. The other Red Tie grabbed the bag from the ground and started to make a run for the nearby cars, taking exactly two steps before Naruto quietly blew his head off.

Gaara dived to the ground, rolled, and sprang back up, launching himself at the side of the van and flying in through the open sliding door. I figured he was using the best cover from sniper fire available: out of sight from the gunman. But I was wrong. He wasn't hiding, or even evading.

Gaara was _attacking._

The weapons dealer rummaged around, then climbed back out of the van carrying a long, smooth pipe on his shoulder the color of olive military uniforms_. Holy shit, this guy's carrying bazookas in the back of his van_! Not bothering with trying to find the location of the sniper that was invisibly killing everyone, Gaara aimed the business end of his weapon at the next most dangerous threat.

The Toyota had arrived at the gate.

Gaara dropped to one knee, aimed, flashed a grin that a dragon would have recognized, and swiftly blew the vehicle up. Shrapnel and flaming parts shot everywhere from the explosion, which was all very pretty, but I knew that the fool had just alerted every guard and cop in the country because of it. I ordered to Naruto, "He's stepped away from the van, take the shot!"

_"Can't. He's keeping down, I don't have a shot."_ Amid the gunfire and explosions, his voice was almost supernaturally calm. Deep in sniping mode.

"All right then. Cover me." I doubted that anyone caught up in the adrenaline rush of the firefight would notice me, but I kept my body small and my head down as I shot across the road, inching closer to their position, my pistol drawn and ready. I crossed the street in a crouch and spied Gaara dropping the spent container on the ground, then ducking into the cover of nearby cargo containers, one hand clutching his face. Orochimaru was nowhere to be found. It was hard to tell who would be the most dangerous of the two.

The street was well lit, but the container area was dark by comparison, full of shadows. It didn't help that my eyes, without the help of the night vision from my binoculars, were having a hard time adjusting. Once I got to the containers I slowed down, moving cautiously, inching forward, my eyes scanning left and right, the gun tracking my vision. _Scan and breathe. Front foot down. Slide forward, then pause. Check position. Again._

Gaara's eyes weren't any better than mine, but I knew the streetlights were backlighting me, exposing my position. I needed to move into the dark, where my ninja training would enpower me. I circled to my right--

A battering ram hit me in the left ribs.

There was an explosion of pain and I actually went flying backwards. I could clearly remember Sakura's voice: _With his kicks he can break individual ribs, one at a time, one after another, in a row, until every rib has snapped and you pass out because it hurts too much to breathe._

Yeah. Or he could break all of them at once, from the feel of things.

My body did a judo _ukemi_ breakfall by instinct, years of muscle memory taking over without any input from my conscious mind. The breakfall distributed impact and saved me from further damage. Lying on my back now, I tried to bring the gun up to where I thought he would be, but the bastard had already moved in. His foot blurred forward in some kind of _fouette _or spiral kick and the gun blew out of my hand. He actually _kicked_ the gun out of my hand. I felt the shock up to my shoulder, but the shock to my system was probably more damaging.

This guy was a damn good fighter.

He reached inside his jacket pocket. What he pulled out flashed in the glare of the streetlights and I instinctively thought_ razor,_ just as Sakura had told me. This was bad. When knives and blades are brought into a streetfight, the one without a blade was going to get cut. Every time. I brought my legs up to try to kick him away, and was surprised to see him take a step back. _Why didn't he rush in to kill? _But then I saw him wiping blood from his eyes and realized that his hesitation was driven more by necessity than by tactics. He must have caught a bit of shrapnel from the exploding car, unlucky enough to slice a gash above one eye. There's a lot of blood pressure in a person's head, so wounds there bleed a lot.

He swayed for a second, and in that second I rolled backward and sprang to my feet. I felt a hot ache in the ribs where he had kicked me and thought, _if I get out of this alive, I WILL carry a blade, I don't care about all the good reasons not to. _Two more steps backward to buy a little distance, and I glanced at the ground. Damn, couldn't find my gun. Too many shadows, and too much junk lying on the ground: cracked wooden pallets, car parts, twisted metal that was too hot to touch. Next to my right foot was a bent hubcap.

I swept it up, looking for a handhold that I could grip so I could use it as a shield, but no dice. Instead, I swung it like a Frisbee. It hissed through the air straight at Gaara's midsection. He jumped left and it sailed right past him. Dammit, even with a head injury the bastard was light on his feet, more like a dancer than a kickboxer. He started to move toward me and I snatched up the two closest weapons available to me: a fistful of gravel and a sizzling piece of shrapnel the size of my fist.

It burned unbelievably hot, and I swung both hands rapid-fire. The gravel went for his face and he managed to duck the worst of it. But the duck cost him maneuverability, and the shrapnel was heading straight for his head. He raised both hands to protect his face and the hot metal slammed into them. I saw the razor tumble out of his grip and felt a rush of satisfaction.

Gaara stood up and glanced at the blade, but I immediately took two steps forward. He looked up at me again, knowing that he wouldn't have enough time to recover the weapon from the floor, so we stood facing each other for a moment, both breathing hard. I took a deep inhale to steady my heart and lungs. He hitched his pants up slightly, creating a little more freedom of movement for his legs.

_That's it, give me one of those fucking legs. I promise to give it back when I'm through breaking it._

Arrogance aside, I knew I had to be careful. His physical skills and endurance were obvious, but more than that I expected his tactics to be devious. Hardcore _savatuers _practice what's known as _malice, _otherwise known as dirty fighting, using improvised weapons, deception, anything to get the job done. It becomes a mindset and way of life for most. I'm familiar with it firsthand. I expected Gaara to be equally so.

I put my hands up in a boxer's stance. He did the same, hands held lower, his posture looser, moving fluidly, light on his feet. Of course I had no inclination to fight him using punches and kicks. That was his game, not mine. But if I offered him a familiar appearance--say, the kind of appearance that he was accustomed to facing in the gym or in the ring--his body might automatically respond to the recognizable stimuli. In which case he would begin to approach me as if I were another kickboxer, thereby, I hoped, creating an opportunity for me to close in and finish him off on the ground. He wouldn't be unacquainted with grappling: _savatuers _call their style of wrestling _lutte, _a derivative of Greco-Roman wrestling designed more to maim and disfigure than capture and restrain. But I had little doubt that, if I could get him to the ground, the advantage would be mine.

He chambered his right leg, feinted, then returned the foot to the ground. He repeated the maneuver. And again. The upraised leg started to return to the ground and I saw my opening. I shot forward like a greyhound at the racetrack, but his foot reversed course unbelievably fast and headed straight for the side of my neck. I covered up with my left elbow, and the toe of his shoe caught me between the biceps and triceps. I had the sudden feeling of getting hit with a mallet.

He retracted the foot, planted it on the ground, and I shot my own kick in, a basic front kick off the back leg aimed at his knee. He twisted clockwise off the line of attack and parried inward with his left hand. I reached out and managed to snag his left sleeve with my right hand and did a judo takedown. He landed on his back and I immediately dropped onto his solar plexus in the middle of his chest, my left knee leading the way. I could feel the hot exhalation as the wind was driven forcefully out of his lungs.

I kept his arm in my grip and performed a move I had practiced thousands of times. I was a _jujigatame _armlock, meant to take out his elbow. I pulled and twisted and levered his arm across the natural movement of the elbow joint.

The joint broke with a resounding crack.

He screamed and writhed under me, and in that moment I realized two things simultaneously. The first was that I might actually get out of this alive and well. But that first hope made me think of my second realization:

I had lost track of his other hand.

My stomach lurched with the knowledge. Then, as that same lurch rolled sickeningly through me, his right arm flashed into view, light glinting off of the surgically presice steel blade he was holding in it. A second razor.

Damn _malice._

I clamped his arm and increased the pressure on his ruined elbow. He screamed again, but he was fighting a battle for his life now and wouldn't be stopped by mere agony. He slashed at my thigh with the razor, and the blade sliced deep into my quadriceps. There was no pain, really, adrenaline taking care of that for the moment, but a gout of blood sprayed from the wound. He slashed again. I tried to grab his hand, but missed, and this time he cut my wrist.

On the next grab I caught his.

Immediately I shifted my body position to where I could reach his head and blasted a hammerfist strike into his face, snapping my bodyweight forward and throwing all I had into the blow.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again.

I felt his body go limp and the razor dropped from his hand. There it was, on the ground next to his head. I grabbed it carefully and slid off of him. His face was a bloody mess and he was groaning, seemingly slipping into semiconsciousness. I knelt beside him and hooked the fingers of my free hand under his jawline. I hauled his head back and raised the razor.

A voice cried out sharply from behind me: _"Stop!"_

I froze, thinking, _What the fuck?_

I looked backed over my shoulder. Two serious-looking Arabs stared back at me, each with a pistol pointing at my face. _"Stop!" _one of them yelled at me. "Drop knife!"

I did as he ordered. Starting to stand, I could feel my right leg wobbling, then it went out on me and I collapsed. I could see why: I was dying. My thigh was gashed wide open and spurting blood. My wrist was doing the same. I was bleeding out from top to bottom.

I sank down to my knees and looked at them. "Why haven't you all been killed yet?" I had a feeling I knew why. My sniper partner had betrayed me, and was letting them kill me. Probably so he could sleep better at night. Or just saving ammunition for the rest of them.

They ignored me. Beside me, Gaara stirred, groaned, and sat up, the move unsteady, and then stumbled up onto his feet. I watched him, impassive. I was already kneeling, and now I placed my hands calmly across my bloody thighs, the fingers pressed lightly together and pointed inward at forty-five degrees. I drew my head and shoulders up into _seiza_, or natural posture. It was the formal postion of traditional Japanese culture, an intergral element of martial arts, of the tea ceremony, and--perhaps most of all--the dignified moments before ritual suicide.

Gaara secured his balance, cradling his broken arm, blood running down his face from the gash in his forehead and the broken nose from my hammerfists. His body convulsed, then he leaned forward and vomited. His men watched and said nothing. He spat a few times and wiped his face with his good hand. For a few seconds he stood leaning that way, catching his breath. Finally he straightened and said to me, his voice ragged, "How have you been tracking me?"

I ignored him. My luck had finally run out. I expected no help from Uzumaki. There was a bag with five million dollars in it. I couldn't expect him to just leave it be. I was alone now, fittingly enough, and I had no escape.

"I will ask you a final time." I could see that he had picked up his razor. "Then I will slice your face apart."

I looked out at the harbor and had the oddest sense that I was connected with it somehow. That my spirit was leaving my body and expanding outward. There was no surprise, but I was oddly amused by how unafraid I was. Death catches everyone, eventually, and I had never harbored any silly illusions about his ability to catch me. That Death had hesitated for so long to take me seemed more out of a desire to mock me than of any real inclination to wait. But he had tired of that game by now, I guess, and now he was moving in to take what we all owe.

_Well, come and get me, _I thought. _Go ahead, take whats yours. Choke on it._

There was a strange sound, like the popping of a champagne cork. I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw a fine mist spraying out of one of the Arabs' heads. I probably should have been worried about that for some reason. But the event felt like it had little to do with me. The other Arab turned to watch his partner slide down to the ground like a suddenly liquefied pole. His mouth was a wide O of surprise, but only for a second. Then his own head was erupting as well.

Even in his battered condition, Gaara could recognize what was happening, was somehow able to process it, and do the only thing he could: run. But something unseen quickly blew his right leg out from underneath him. He landed on his face, immediately pushed himself up with one arm, staggered for a second, then got one foot to limp forward. Something knocked him down again, causing a red mist to spray from his back. This time he didn't get up again. I could still hear his gasps.

All the commotion seemed trivial, silly. I wished everyone would stop and let me rest. In peace.

There were soft footfalls to my right. I sighed and looked over. It was Uzumaki. He had approached me and was moving swiftly towards us, the rifle shouldered and pointing downrange. Maybe he would recover the five million. If so, then he would have to make sure everyone was dead. First Gaara. Then me. Game over.

I looked out at the harbor again and felt myself dying. It was warm. The feeling was not at all unpleasant.

"You all right?" I heard him ask. I looked over at him again, but didn't answer. The question might have been cruel, given what he was about to do to me, yet somehow it struck me as almost funny. I looked at him and smiled a little.

"That mean yes?" he asked, raising the rifle to eye level. There was a soft _thwack _and a flash from the suppressor.

I looked over at Gaara. He was totally still and quiet. Naruto had put the last round into his head. He looked at me, and I could see concern in his face. Then he lowered the rifle. I was confused.

"Am I dead?"

"Well, you don't look so hot, but I'm pretty sure you ain't dead. I would say, though, that it's right around time for us to get our sweet asses out of here."

"What about...what about the money?" I couldn't understand what was happening.

"Well, it's a heartbreaker, sure, but I had to abandon it to come to your rescue. That Asian guy got to it first and he took off in his car. I meant to get here sooner, but there was a lot going down over on my side of the fence, and I had a fair amount of ground to cover. Plus, even though Lia's a sexy girl, she ain't exactly lightweight, even for musclemen like myself." Naruto stooped and got his head under my arm, then straightened. We started walking towards the white van with all the weapons in it.

"You just...let it go?"

"Sasuke, I don't give a damn about money when my partner's in trouble."

* * *

I was out for a long time after that. When I woke up, I was in a bed in a small, dingy little room. I looked around: Brown drapes from another millennium. An old television on a cheap dresser. A metal door with a peephole. It was, without a doubt, one of the ugliest motel rooms I had ever had the unfortunate luck to visit.

Naruto was in a chair next to the bed, facing the door, sitting with his head slumped forward and the rifle set across his lap.

I pulled back the blanket and looked at my thigh. It was heavily bandaged. Likewise for my wrist. They both hurt, and my ribs were the color of a coming thunderstorm, but none of it was terribly crippling. My head felt fuzzy, though, and I knew that they had given me plenty of painkillers.

"Hey," I said.

Naruto's eyes popped open and his head snapped up. "Well, all right," he said, flashing me his grin. "It's damn good to see you again, man, you had me worried there for a second."

"Where the hell are we?"

"A little Motel 6 kind of joint. I didn't want anyone bothering us while you were recuperating."

"Who bandaged me up?"

"Our good buddy Shika-boom-boom made a few phone calls and took care of everything. Got a local surgeon out here pretty quick. The doc sewed you up good, but by that point you had already lost a lot of blood. Luckily, I was on hand to lend you a quart or so of my own, so don't be surprised if your dick's grown to be about twice as big as you remember."

"Am I going to start looking at sheep differently, too?"

He grinned again. "You should only be so lucky. But one way or another, take comfort in the fact that you've got about a quart of Uzumaki sloshing around inside of you. There's guys who'd pay good money for all that crimson Viagra, and here you are getting it for free."

I nodded, taking it all in. "Thank you," I said, looking him in the eye.

He shook his head and raised a hand. "Forget about it. Like I said, you were good to me back home. I don't forget."

"Well, I reckon we're even, then."

His eyebrows shot north and his expression went awed. "Did you just say _reckon_? My God, son, it's working already!"

**Next Chapter: Epilogue.**


	11. Chapter 11

**"Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven."**

**Tryon Edwards**

I went back to Brazil.

The city was warm. It was summer there, south of the equator, and it felt good to be back, to walk the beaches and swim in the ocean and listen to _choro_ and drink _caipirinhas _and live, for a while, as Toshiro Keitaro again. I knew there were people now who would think to look for me here. But I'm not easy to get to, even if you know the right city.

I had been back for about two months when I found a message on my private phoneline. It was a young woman's voice, one I knew very well for the short time we had spent together. She said, "I'm vacationing in a wonderful city. Every morning I swim at the most famous beach there. The older beach, the one farthest north. I wish you could join me."

I stared at the message recorder for a long time.

Then, without even being conscious of a decision having been made, I started packing a bag.

That night I checked into the Copacabana Palace Hotel, Rio's grandest, positioned on its famous beach. I took an ocean-view villa on the fifth floor. I had brought along a pair of binoculars--not quite the quality of the Zeiss model that I had employed during the mission, but good enough for gazing at the ocean. Or the beach.

At nine o'clock the next morning, she showed.

She was wearing a pink thong bikini. I decided it would have been a crime for her to wear anything else. She swam for twenty minutes, then lay down on a towel in the sun. She seemed to be alone, but the beach was starting to fill up. I had no way of really knowing. I told myself that she had no reason to set me up. And that was true. But the funny thing was, I just didn't care anymore. For the moment, I didn't even care how she knew where to find me, or had gotten my phone number. It just didn't seem to matter anymore.

I undressed down to board shorts, slung a towel over one shoulder, and made my way down to the beach. The sun was beating down hot from above, and I squinted through my sunglasses against the glare coming off of the ocean and the sand. Placing the towel down next to her, I sat on it. "Is this spot taken?"

She opened her eyes. They were greener than I had ever seen them, taking on some of the hues of the sea. She smiled, sat up, and looked at me for a long time. "You got my message."

I nodded. "It was a surprise. A pleasant one."

"You probably want to know how I found you."

"I want to know how you've been."

She was beautiful. She was just...beautiful. Not a single word was spoken for a while, until she smiled, leaned in, and kissed me. Then she pulled back and glanced at my arm and my thigh. The dressings and bandages were gone now, and the slowly healing results of Gaara's handiwork were clearly visible. Whoever had patched me up must have been more concerned about closing the wounds than with their cosmetic appearance. It looked like I had been attacked by a pissed off cutlery set.

"I heard what you did to Gaara."

I shrugged. "No idea what what you're talking about."

She chuckled. "You know where those weapons were going?"

I shook my head. It may have been cold of me, but I didn't care who was going to use them, or for what purpose. Wars are a terrible thing. And they never stop. Since the dawn of mankind, I don't think that the human race has experienced one single day of peace, and I told her so. She actually seemed like she understood.

"But you stopped the shipment and took care of Gaara. Right now, you have a lot of admirers among the people I work with."

I smiled. But the smile felt a little sad. "Why do I have the feeling that there's a job offer in all of this?"

"Well...I'd be lying if I said there wasn't."

I nodded and looked away. I'd really been hoping there, for a minute. On glimpse of a thong bikini, and my common sense had melted away. It was ridiculous.

"But I'm not here to make a sales pitch to you."

I wasn't going to buy it. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "I'm taking a long vacation, a long...decompression. It's standard practice after living undercover and in danger of discovery for so long. My organization is generous this way, and sensible. They understand the stresses. Usually I lose myself for a while after an assignment is finished. I travel, hook up with some rich, handsome young man, try to blot out recent memories with a lot of wine and sex. No one knows where I go, and no one asks. I come back when I'm ready."

"And this time?"

"This time...I thought I'd like to spend some time with a young man I met. If he's interested."

I looked out at the water. "Tell me how you found me."

She nodded, understanding. "After you disappeared from China, priority was given to tracking you, and we put together a lot of information pretty quickly. The more we learned about you, the more we were able to figure out. A few smart people I know made assumptions, and some technicians fed data into supercomputers. They tracked you to South America, but after that your trail went cold."

"Not cold enough, it seems."

"But you forgot one thing," she smiled. "I know you. We spent time together."

"Yeah, one date and a midnight tryst."

Her smile widened, but her eyes diverted downward. "Remeber that date? You ordered _caipirinhas._ You said _por favor_ when you ordered."

"No, I didn't."

She nodded. "The waittress was ethnic Portugese, so at the time I thought you were just using some trivial knowledge of the language. But, when the technicians tracked you to South America, I started thinking about what you had ordered, the way you had ordered it, your accent, the Japanese community in Brazil--"

I sighed. "I guess that's the problem with being multilingual. You forget what the hell language you're speaking."

She laughed. "Anyway, Rio felt right to me. It just felt right. I decided to give it a try. Tokyo would have been my next guess, but a _caipirinha _wouldn't taste nearly as good there, would it?"

"You want to get one now?"

She gestured to the position of the sun. "It's still morning."

I shrugged. "I've got a room in the hotel. We could kill some time first."

Her smile broadened. "That sounds really nice," she said.

"How long are you going to be in town?"

"For as long as it takes."

I held out my hand. She took it and we stood. Then we walked back to the hotel.

"You know, you haven't even told me your name yet..."

* * *

**THE AUTHOR WOULD LIKE TO THANK...**

**First off, the reposting of this story would have been impossible had it not been for a comrade named seetheworld. I respectfully bow to you, my friend.**

**My medical professor friends at Florida International University, for offering (unbelievably reluctant) expert advice on killing someone with just the right combo of staphylococcus aureus, chloral hydrate, and potassium chloride--and providing the detailed descriptions of what each chemical could do. Oh yeah, and even providing the right type of needle needed!**

**To Gavin DeBecker, for writing **_**The Gift of Fear**_**, which has helped Sasuke (and countless others) spot subtle signs of danger and effectively deal with potential violence.**

**To Maj. John L. Plaster USAR (Ret.), for writing **_**The Ultimate Sniper,**_** and for his other excellent books and videos on sniping, all of which proved invaluable background on and tactics for Naruto.**

**To Dr. Gilliar, for overcoming his queasiness about my questions just enough to explain exactly what would happen to Naruto's knee if Sasuke would have gone through with his threat (them sambo foot locks are dangerous!)**

**To Marc "Animal" MacYoung and the rest of the Animal List folks who hang out at **_**nononsenseselfdefense dot com,**_** the most qualified experts on everything involving survival in real life-or-death situations; in particular, thanks to Dave, mad scientist and moral philosopher, for sharing his knowledge of firearms and the results on what really works and what's just Hollywood; Jake, former army sniper, for helping me understand Naruto and refine his tactics; and Kevin, Savate Silver Glove, for teaching me (the hard way) how real Savatuers fight.**

**To Matt Damon, for his excellent portrayal of Jason Bourne and inspiring me to write a character just as lethally cool.**

**To Barry and Yuri, for help with Japanese phrases and spelling.**

**To my friends at the Barnes & Noble cafe, for serving the best coffee--and background music--that any writer could ask for.**

**To Krav Maga instructors Kubiyanka, May, and Salazar, for teaching Sakura (and myself) just how hard an elbow can really hit, for their constant knowledge to help inspire me, and for having enough patience to help me pass my Level 3 exams. I respectfully bow to you three, sirs.**

**To Jill, for her insights into what sophisticated, sexy young women wear and how they think; and for the unbe**_**lievably **_**fun research sessions that are probably illegal in several states (this most definitely being one of them).**

**Most of all, always and forever, the readers. **

**The Ninja Assassin will return for his sequel.**


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